Superwholock: Chronicles'
by DefiantDuck
Summary: Three very different worlds collide when a string of murders attracts three duos, duos who all have some interest in the bizarre happenings around London. When time lords, angels, demons and a surly detective are thrown together, the result is a near apocalyptic experience. Who is the murderer and what are their intentions? The answer will hit close to home for everyone.
1. Chapter 1 'Encounter'

_This story started out as something I was only doing for fun, not intending for it to be posted online. Eventually though, it got too complex and I loved writing it too much to keep it to myself rather than share it with people who might get some enjoyment out of it. _

_As for warnings, this fic has some swearing, but no smut. It wasn't written for a particular ship (though there is extremely subtly implied Johnlock and Destiel,) rather it was written because I was interested in the way these six characters would interact with one another. The plot is mostly predetermined, but I'd love to hear suggestions and comments._

_It's worth saying, as well, I know there are some plot holes, and the punctuation and grammar is far from perfect. But for something meant to be a bit of fun, I hope you can look past any errors and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it __J_

_Here is the time period this story took place in for each set of characters, for a bit of context, though the character's situations in their own franchises are barely mentioned. For the most part, this story took place when each duo weren't in the middle of something big:_

_Sherlock and John: Some time between S03E02 and S03E03 (After John's wedding, before Magnusson)_

_The Doctor and Clara: Time between S07E13 and S03E14 (Before the revealing of the John Hurt Doctor)_

_Dean and Sam: Just after the apocalypse, after Sam gets his soul back, and before the Winchesters find out about Cas' plans for the souls of purgatory._

_Without further ado, enjoy :D_

* * *

**_1 | Encounter_**

Yet another classic rock song blared through the 1967 Chevrolet Impala's speaker system, echoing through the interior of the car and shooting right through the already throbbing brain of Sam Winchester.

"Dean, turn it down?" He asked, pinching the bridge of his noise and wincing as the screaming noise of a guitar solo made his ears ring.

His brother looked at him with eyes wide with mock surprise, a smirk playing at the sides of his mouth. "You kidding me? This is the best part!"

Sam sighed and squinted out the window at the darkness. It had only been an hour since they'd picked the Impala up at the shipping yard, and Dean had acted as though he hadn't seen the old car in years. He drummed his fingers on the dash almost affectionately, nodding slightly with the music.

So far, London hadn't revealed itself to be any different to San Francisco, New York, or anywhere else in the States. It was all traffic, skyscrapers and crowds of bustling people, especially in the dark, when the streets were illuminated by the flickering artificial golden glow of streetlights. Sam suspected London would reveal itself, and the reason for their trip across the pond, in the light of day.

* * *

John found himself awakening to the sound of pots crashing together. He jerked where he lay, shocked by the sudden noise that sounded as though it were coming right below him. "Uh…Ah, Mary?! Mary!"

His wife, eyes wide with confusion, appeared at the door to their bedroom. She had wrapped a bath robe around herself, and was still a little bleary eyed, having just woken up herself. "Yes?"

John sat up in bed, running a hand over his face and stifling a yawn. "What's all the noise?"

As if on cue, the crashing resumed downstairs. John looked alarmed. "Wha…Is there someone here?!"

Mary nodded easily, leaning back to glance down the stairs, pursing her lips and shrugging, resigned. "Take a guess. I made him a cup of coffee, but I think it just made him worse." She stopped and looked thoughtful. "Is it _possible _for him to get any worse?"

John sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Dammit. Sherlock."

Mary shrugged, but she couldn't help smiling. "He turned up at the crack of dawn this morning and said he needed to talk to you. Then he announced that he was going to make breakfast and started tearing my kitchen apart." She looked uneasy, then frowned. "I think he's in a good mood, but I don't know what that looks like."

John threw the blankets off him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Grunting with effort, he got up and put on a robe, tying the cord into a tight knot. Nodding at Mary grimly, they descended the stairs together.

In the kitchen, things were worse than John could have imagined. The tall man with his back to the stairs was leaning over a pot precariously arranged on the stove. One was full of hot water, and the man was cracking an egg with his long pale fingers into it. The egg plopped into the water, spraying scalding droplets around the benchtop. Mary appeared at John's elbow, wincing.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice coming out more tense than he'd intended.

Sherlock didn't turn around. "I told Mrs Hudson to prepare something, but she was downstairs." He hesitated, as though thinking. "…and asleep. I don't think she got the message."

"Sherlock," John repeated testily.

"There's a science to this," Sherlock muttered to himself. "If only I could…" With a noise of frustration, he turned away from the failed poached egg, scowling before catching John's eyes. His face relaxed. "Ah. At last. You're awake."

John shook his head, bemused. "What are you doing here at…" He glanced at the clock. "At a quarter past six in the morning. What was so important that you couldn't wait a couple of hours, or call, or…"

Sherlock looked at John with confusion, as though not understanding the question. "My phone was on the dresser."

"_So you invited yourself to my house?!" _John fumed.

Sherlock shook his head a little, as though shooing a fly, before darting forward to perch on a stool by the counter. His eyes were shining with a light that only ever lit his face when he'd heard there had been a case of mass murder in the vicinity. "I've found it, John. I've found a way to track him. I know where he'll be."

John raised his eyebrows. "You mean…"

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched, a threatening smile. "Yes."

John straightened up, coughing nervously. Mary, looking bemused, caught her husband's eye. John smiled grimly. "Sorry, Mary, but I think you should cancel the patients booked in for today."

Mary looked bewildered. "Why?!"

Sherlock stood up, smiling his usual disquieting grin. "We're going to Cardiff."

* * *

"You think all motels here are like this, or did you pick an expensive one?" Dean asked as they dumped their bags onto the two double beds that were in a corner of the motel room.

Sam had to agree – it was a nice motel, certainly nothing that they would have the money for normally. Coming to London had already been so expensive. They'd had to get new fake IDs, smuggle themselves through international security in the airport, not to mention convincing Dean to get onto the plane without anesthetizing him first. Flying interstate made Dean touchy, but flying over a huge body of water made him downright skittish. It would have been funny if it wasn't Sam that had to calm his brother enough not to make the flight crew suspicious. They had already gotten through security posing as a pair of FBI agents; they didn't need to draw any more attention to themselves.

Now, in a motel that, granted, was clean and comfortable, but could still have passed for an American motel, Sam found himself relaxing.

"So," Dean shrugged, sinking into a couch and crossing his arms. "Let's hear it."

"You've heard it," Sam sighed, massaging his temples, where the headache still lingered.

"I wanna hear it again. If this one will be the worst son-of-a-bitch we've ever faced, we're gonna want to know what's coming." Dean smiled, in the overly cheerful way he knew would annoy his brother.

Sam sunk into a chair at the tiny dining table and pulled out his computer. "What we're looking at isn't unheard of in the lore. In Hindu mythology we have King Raivata Kakudmi, in Japanese we have Urashima Taro. Even in the Quran there were mentions, the story of the seven sleepers. It's been spoken of, and if it's been spoken of before, no matter how long ago, it's possible."

"Yeah but… this is different, isn't it, Sammy? I mean…" Dean looked up at Sam, gritting his teeth. "Time travel?"

Sam shrugged, leaning back in his chair to frown at his brother. "Hey, come on. Cas has sent us back in time before, and that time god Chronos dragged you back to the forties, remember? It's not that weird, not for us."

"Point taken," Dean nodded. "New question. Why don't we let some British hunters deal with this? It's none of our business, and it's not like we didn't have a job. One minute we're on the trail of Crowley and his property bid into Purgatory, and then you're telling me we have to haul ass to check out some time travelling wizard?"

"Bro. It's not a wizard."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Then what?"

Sam frowned snapping his laptop open on the coffee table. "I don't know," He said. "I've only ever heard rumours about this thing. I know it's bad, like," He stared at his brother meaningfully. "_Really _bad. This one website said it was 'drenched in the blood of millions.'"

Dean blinked, his eyebrows raising in the way they only do when he's impressed. "Okay, so that doesn't sound ominous at all." He rumbled sarcastically.

"The lore I've found on it isn't exactly what you might call reliable," Sam shrugged with a frown. "They're mostly conspiracy theory websites, groups of wackos who talk about aliens and monsters in internet chatrooms."

"I'd laugh," Dean said dryly, "but since we're included in the 'wacko' category, I guess it's not that funny. What do they say?"

"They're talking about the same stuff we've found. The same face cropping up in records and old photos."

Dean leaned back, smiling. "Great, we've got a bit of intel. Now we hunt it. How do we hunt it?"

Sam grinned, snapping the laptop closed. "Well, we've gotta get out of London for one."

His brother's smile disappeared, almost comically. "But we only just got here."

"Pack up, man," Sam shrugged. "We're headed to Cardiff, Wales."

Dean stood up, stretching his arms behind him. "Heh. As long as it doesn't mean getting into another flying death trap, I'm game."

* * *

"Let me see if I understand this," John said, trailing behind the tall figure strolling before him, complete with long coat and scarf. "You've found a way to find this…this…."

"Time traveller," Sherlock finished for him, sidestepping people on the sidewalk, apparently not caring about the volume of his voice. A couple of people turned to stare at him. There was a massive crowd moving off the wharf in Cardiff, having embarked from the ferry dragging wheeled bags in their wake. Sherlock and John were among them, though travelling lighter than the throng of heavily laden tourists.

"Yes, alright," John frowned, glancing at the people around them, "a time traveller then. You've found it?"

"Him. And yes."

John caught up to walk side by side with Sherlock, frowning up at him. "_Him?"_

Sherlock glanced at him, eyebrows pulling together irritably, as though John was interrupting him. "Yes, yes, him. It's a him, of course it's a him, every time it's been a him."

"Every time?"

"Every time he's turned up in the history books, he's the same. The same name, but whenever there's a picture he looks the same as well. Didn't you read my email?"

John frowned, and looked away. Sherlock, narrowing his eyes, sighed and shook his head. "You should check your emails."

"Alright, alright," John sighed, "Just tell me about it."

Sherlock glanced at his best friend disapprovingly before continuing. "All you need to know is that I've found him. And we're going to get him. Tonight."

* * *

Dean snapped down the trunk of the Impala, throwing a rifle to his brother and stowing a colourful variety of knifes and pistols in his jacket and waistband. They were heavy on his clothes, but they were a familiar kind of heavy, a comfortable burden. If anything, he began to relax as his fingers closed around the angel blade that he'd swiped from some angel or another. Sam checked the ammunition in the guns he'd taken, and then nodded grimly at his brother.

"Kind of a dingy place for a celestial being," Dean said grimly, looking around the wharf with a smile. Darkness made the wet surfaces gleam white, and the sea pulsed and shone radiantly in the light of the moon. Shipping containers made the place seem almost like a maze of paths and corridors.

They moved silently through the containers, listening for the sound that would tell them they'd gotten the right place. Before long, though, Dean froze, flattening himself against a shipping container. Sam frowned at him, questioning. Dean narrowed his eyes, jerking his head in the direction of the sound he'd heard – footsteps. From the sound of them, there were two people, and just as the Winchesters had stopped, they had too. The silence was deafening, Dean's ears ringing with adrenaline. Raising a hand, he counted down from three, lifting his rifle. As the final finger went down, both boys threw themselves out into the open.

When the four men saw one another for the first time, their reactions were varied. Three, Sam, Dean and a short blonde man, raised firearms. Granted, Sam and Dean's weapons were larger, massive hunting rifles, but the man seemed comfortable enough holding a gun. The fourth man, the tall one with the scarf and the trench coat, stood still, surveying the scene with a grim look on his face.

"Fascinating," He observed, looking the two men up and down.

Dean took a more offensive stance. "I'll show you what's fascinating, you tea-drinking scone-eating son of a bitch."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the shorter man, the blonde one with the pistol. "Why were you following us?"

John looked confused. "We weren't,"

Dean chuckled humourlessly. "You expect us just to believe you happened to be going the same way as us, and just happened to – "

"That's exactly what you should believe – because it's true," The tall dark-haired man said softly, his voice deep and slow. "Is it so unusual that four people happen to be innocently travelling in the same direction at the same time?"

Dean shifted the focus of his rifle, just slightly, toward the man who had spoken. "Maybe not, but it doesn't happen often. Not to us," Sam said uncomfortably.

"Likewise." A slight smile played at the corner of the dark-haired man's mouth, and then he turned to his companion. "Lower the gun, John. They're not going to shoot us."

Dean smirked. "Oh, are we not?" Sam shifted uncomfortably.

The man looked Dean and Sam up and down again. "No. You're not." With another glance to the blonde man, his companion lowered his weapon.

Sam started to lower his own, but Dean still remained on edge. "And why would you think that?"

The man smiled again. His friend, John, looked at him warningly. "Sherlock, don't."

Dean scoffed, his eyes still cold. "Sherlock? What kind of a name is Sherlock?"

The man, Sherlock, glanced over, his eyes narrowed irritably. "I know you're not going to shoot because your stance, your resolve, everything about you down to the way you hold your weapon says you're highly experienced and extremely proficient in the use of firearms. Not military though, perhaps hunting or sport – hunting seems likely. Stress and sleep deprivation is written all over your face, the lines, the expression – guilt as well, the kind of which results only from killing, or experiencing trauma of a similar nature – I know the kind well, John showed similar symptoms.

You're aggressive, prickly, and the way you talk with such grand bravado – it says a lot about you. You're also hiding a lot, perhaps not serial liar but borderline. There's blood on your clothes, cleaned, certainly, but not well enough to hide the stains that will take multiple washes to remove – so, fresh blood. You're paranoid, your mind jumping straight to the conclusion that we followed you here.

So, a young man with skill in firearms, guilt, exhaustion and a history as a hunter – you've got a bloody past. You've killed before, but given you didn't just gun John and I down, even though, by default, you saw us as a threat, you aren't desensitized to killing, you won't do it on impulse, you have to have a reason to kill. Conclusion: You have some degree of a moral code. Conclusion: You're _not _going to shoot us."

A few beats of silence followed Sherlock's words, the only sounds the quiet rhythmic chirping of crickets, and the lapping of the waves on the side of the dock. Sam opened his mouth, closing it again when no words came out.

John, looking distinctly uncomfortably, glanced at his companion. "Sherlock, I told you - _don't."_

Dean shook his head slightly, staring with hostility at the still smirking figure of Sherlock. When Dean spoke, his voice was cold. "You done?"

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, tilting his head from side to side as though weighing something up. "Father issues. Absent mother. Dead maybe?"

A number of things happened simultaneously. John turned to his best friend, looking disgusted, and shouted "_Sherlock!", _while Dean darted forward with a growl, hands clenching into fists, and his brother leapt forward to restrain him. Sherlock looked slightly surprised at the whole scene, glancing from Sam to Dean.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

Dean struggled to get out of Sam's grip, spitting and growling at the two men before him. "_I'll give you wrong, you son of a bitch!"_

John stepped forward, raising his palms. "Look, I'm sorry, he's sorry, there's no need for anyone to –"

His words were interrupted by a noise though, a noise that made all four men freeze, every muscle unmoving and rigid. The noise itself was a groaning, gasping roar, starting and stopping. It echoed through the night, resounding in the minds of all four men.

Sam released his brother and inhaled sharply. "Was that-"

Sherlock's eyes had widened, and he turned to stare at John meaningfully. "That's it."

Simultaneously, all four began running in the direction of the sound, drawn to it like moths to a flame. The sound of their shoes pounding the concrete echoed perhaps even louder than the sound they pursued, sharp cracking noises that pounded into Dean's mind. They darted through the rows of fishing containers, ears tuned to the mechanic gasping noise. The light of the moon shone irregularly on the huge containers, casting massive bizarre shaped shadows on the ground. Dean didn't allow himself to be unnerved – he'd faced far too much before this to be rattled by a noise and some unusual shadows. He realised he still had his gun in his hand, and made no move to put it away.

They came to a sudden stop at the far end of the pier, where before them, casting an eerie light from a single bulb, sat a large blue box, the words 'POLICE TELEPHONE BOX' emblazoned across it in white letters.

All four stood still, taking in this new occurrence.

Sam frowned. "What's a – a police telephone box?"

"Ah, they're from the sixties. A way to call the police before mobile phones." John explained, coughing nervously.

"Okay," Dean said, narrowing his eyes. "Then what's it doing here?"

Sam glanced at his brother meaningfully. Dean raised his eyes in understanding, and raised his rifle again. Sam did the same, and together they crept closer to the box. Both boys felt the instinct born of years of hunting guide their movements, subtle and furtive, their footsteps barely making a sound.

Sherlock blinked at them. "What do you think you're doing?"

Dean shushed him, smirking slightly. "Just stand back and let us work, pal."

Suddenly, the door to the box was thrown open, light emanating from the box, making them stagger back and shield their eyes.

Dean resisted the urge to shoot the shapes that were emerging from the blue box, instead waiting a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light.

Within moments he could make out the two figures, stepping slowly out of the light. One was a man, the other a woman.

"What the _hell, _Sammy?" Dean hissed at his brother.

"I don't know,"

"No, seriously, _what the hell. _Is this what we were looking for?"

Sam glanced at Dean, frowning slightly. A few steps away, Sherlock and John were frozen, the taller man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his mind seemed to be racing a mile a minute.

The man that had stepped out of the box peered around at them, his face splitting into a small smile. The woman crept closer to him, her eyes moving from the Winchesters to Sherlock and John warily. She had shoulder length straight hair, wore a short navy blue dress with a pattern of white flowers on it, as well as a black leather jacket, and a small bag hung over one shoulder. The man exhibited a far more peculiar ensemble, long dark coat over a dark grey vest, complete with pocket watch and perfectly straight bow tie. He smiled mildly around at them, before clasping his hands together, almost gleefully.

"Well," He said, "This is quite the turn-out."

* * *

One of the Winchesters lit a match, golden light filling the room with strange shadows cast by the junk and clutter in the old log cabin. It had been their suggestion to come somewhere they could all talk without being overheard, that the strange marks they'd drawn on the walls, doors and windows made it safe from "prying eyes." Despite this, which was obviously meant to be reassuring, John couldn't help feeling a little more suspicious of the boys, who looked perfectly serious when they spoke about demons, angels and monsters, as well as the symbols which warded against them. Every now and then, John would glance at Sherlock, to find some guide on how they should be taking it all, but his best friend continued to look unfazed, concentrative to the point of aggression, his palms pressed together as though in prayer.

They stood idly in the dimly lit room, which consisted of an old timber table and chairs, ratty sofa and a TV so old it could be in a museum. It was dusty, dirty, and definitely a place John didn't want to find himself. He told himself he should call Mary, let her know he would be later than expected, but he stopped himself – he'd have time to explain later.

Once Sam and Dean had lit the candles, they stood, eyeing each other off with varying degrees of defensiveness. Finally, the bow-tied man cheerfully broke the silence.

"Well, this is cozy. I love a good cabin. Always have." He said, and John tried and failed to find a note of dry sarcasm in his voice, a voice cheerful to the point of childishness. The man strolled forward and sat down at the table, crossing his legs casually. "Shall we?"

One by one, in silence, they sat down at the table, still watching one another warily. The young woman sat by her companion at the head of the table, while the Winchesters and John and Sherlock took one side of the table each.

"I think we can start with introductions," The bow-tie man said happily, "It's been a while since I've been able to make so many at once. Go on, then." He nodded at John encouragingly.

John frowned, coughing nervously. "I'm..ah…My name is…I'm Doctor John Watson."

Sherlock took a moment before speaking, still appearing to be weighing up the situation. "Sherlock Holmes."

When it became apparent he wasn't going to say any more, the bow-tie man turned to the two brothers. They glanced at each other uncomfortably, Dean scowling. Sam shrugged. "I'm Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean."

The man turned to his own companion, waving a hand in a grand gesture, inviting her to share with the group. Wide-eyed, she glanced around. "Hello everyone. Clara Oswald."

The man turned to face them all, and in a voice that seemed as though he'd been waiting until last for dramatic effect, said "Hello all, my name is The Doctor – not Doctor who, Doctor what, Doctor why, just The Doctor. My rules, The Doctor lies, don't wander off, never – "

"Does he ever shut up? He's even more annoying than scarf-man." Dean muttered under his breath, cutting the Doctor off short. A smile flitted across Clara's face.

"Alright, now that the _pleasantries _are tended to," Sherlock said testily, his voice low and irritated. "I think explanations are next on our little agenda."

"You want an agenda, here's an agenda," Dean snapped, eyes flashing, "My brother and I come flying across the pond to gank some killer time-travelling son-of-a-bitch, when in fact we get here and find this british bow-tie freak, as dangerous as an old man, as well as his lady friend, mister scarf-wearing mind-reader over there plus his little buddy. What the hell are you all doing here, and more to the point," Dean pointed accusingly at the Doctor, "who the _hell _are you?!"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, Sam cut in shooting a hostile glance at his brother. "Look, guys, my brother doesn't mean to offend anyone, he just kind of does it unconsciously. It's just been a long day."

Clara leaned forward a little. "What do you mean you were looking for a killer time-traveller?"

Sam and Dean glanced at one another. Dean, leaning back and crossing his arms in a kind of gesture of angry consent, allowed Sam to explain. Sam turned back to Clara. "It's why we're here. It's our job to, well…hunt things. Things that are dangerous, but that most people don't really know are there. Spirits, demons, that kind of thing."

Clara narrowed her eyes, a smile playing at her lips. "You're saying you're like… Ghostbusters?"

Both Winchesters shifted uncomfortably. Dean frowned, disturbed. "I don't like that."

John shook his head, bewildered. "You honestly expect us to believe you chase ghosts for a living?"

Dean turned to stare at John, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "Maybe the good doctor should tell us what you and your big buddy were doing sniffing around there then."

John looked over at Sherlock as the surly detective began to speak. "John and I were looking for the same thing you were. I've been investigating a man who shows up at various points in history, always with the same face, and under the same name – the Doctor."

The Doctor grinned and stretched his arms wide, as though saying _Here I am! _When all he received were blank stares, he crossed his arms and frowned. "Fine then. You're a laugh, you lot." He pointed at Sam and Dean. "So you hunt things, but what about you two?" He stared at Sherlock and John. "What do you pair do with yourselves?"

"I'm a consulting detective, I assist the police and investigate criminal matters. John is my companion," Sherlock added just as John said "assistant."

"Fine, Ghostbusters and Detectives, all well and good." The Doctor said thoughtfully. "But why were you looking for me. Well, why did you _find _me, more like. It's impossible to locate me, normally, I'm not exactly what you might call 'on the radar.'"

Sherlock and John and Sam and Dean all looked at one another.

"We noticed a pattern in the data we'd dug up." Sam said slowly. "Every so often, without fail, there's a sighting of a blue box - "

"- In Cardiff, Wales." Sherlock finished with a nod. "It was child's play to discern a pattern."

The Doctor shrugged. "Well, you've got me there. My ship needs recharging, and there's a time rift in Cardiff because a girl named… well, it's a long story actually. I'll save it for a cold night when we're all huddled by a fireplace, Or not. In any case, you've found me!"

Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Something doesn't add up though."

The Doctor smiled. "Oh?"

"Yeah. We were hunting some kind of monster, a killer. The lore said you're soaked in the blood of millions. You don't strike me as the killing type."

The Doctor looked uncomfortable for the first time, his eyes moving away and a frown creeping across his face.

John blinked, as though he realised something. "Wait, yes, that's why we're here too. Strange things have been happening, and we thought…" He trailed off, looking at Sherlock with confusion.

Sherlock shook his head thoughtfully. "It'll be back to the drawing board. This Doctor doesn't match the profile for the one doing the killings, and besides – "

"Wait, strange things?" Sam asked, sitting up straighter.

"Killings?" Dean added, a smile creeping across his face.

"Don't get too excited, boys," Clara mumbled, her eyebrows raised.

"Strange things are kind of _our _thing," Sam explained with a shrug. "If there's supernatural crap going down here, your best bet is to let us near it."

Sherlock straightened up a little. "What makes you think I need help on _my _case?"

"Buddy," Dean said, his voice light with amusement, but his eyes dark with an unspoken challenge to the dark-haired detective. "If there's some weird crap going on in your case, then you _need_ us."

The Doctor clapped his hands together, "Excellent! Just perfect."

Everyone turned to stare at the Doctor, who looked thrilled. "Well," he said, "I have time to kill until my ship recharges, and a delightful set of new companions to break in." He looked around, before spreading his arms out over his head. "_Let's solve a murder!"_

**Next Chapter: 'The Dream Team': Something is stalking the people of London, and while they may not be particularly happy about it, the Winchesters, the Doctor, Clara, Sherlock and John have to admit its right down each of their alleys. Enter an angel, a rogue time agent and a kidnapping, and the story has only just begun.**


	2. Chapter 2 'The Dream Team'

**_2 | The Dream Team_**

* * *

Clara awoke in a dingy motel room, and for a moment, couldn't remember what could possibly have transpired to bring her here, a motel with the option to pay by the hour. She sat up and rubbed her eyes as the memories slowly returned to her. The Doctor had reassured her that the TARDIS would only need a quick recharge, that they'd soon be on their way to a planet made entirely out of bubble-wrap. She had not counted on the four men that they had crossed paths with yesterday.

She didn't quite know what to make of Sherlock Holmes, who turned his coat collar up and scowled when he was thinking, and could tell you your life story with a single glance. His companion, John, was far more easy to talk to. She had found Doctor Watson generally pleasant, a decent enough person.

The Winchesters were among the strangest pair she'd ever encountered, the older, shorter brother surly and grumpy. Sam, on the other hand, spoke somewhat softer, and often seemed to wear an expression that looked as though he was going to cry. She'd take sensitivity over Dean's rough coarseness any day.

The Doctor had stayed in Wales to watch over the TARDIS for the night, but was due to join them today. They'd travelled back to London separately, unable to bear much more time with one another. It had struck her how different each member of their party was, and yet now it seemed they would be working together. She wondered yet again what she was doing here, why the Doctor thought it necessary to get involved in the crime-solving capers of normal people, when there was a whole universe to explore. When she pointed this out to the Doctor, he had smiled and given his usually maddening answer – 'Clara. Dear, sweet Clara. You should know that the biggest adventures are closest to home.' She heartily disagreed with this, but she couldn't help feeling it was good to be back in London, familiar London, even if it was with unfamiliar people.

She pushed herself out of bed and got dressed, pulling a big coat on when she began to shiver in the early morning chill. Not long after she began wondering what to do until the Doctor arrived, there was a knock at the door and Sam Winchester strolled in.

"Hey," He said shortly, uncomfortably. "We're meeting here. Dean's gone to Baker Street to pick up the others. He'll swing by the docks to grab the Doctor too."

"Oh, right," She said. "Great."

They stood uncomfortably for a moment, glancing around the room as if the walls had suddenly become the most thrilling thing in their lives. Finally, Sam grimaced with resignation, and glanced up at Clara. "So – how is it you end up travelling with the Doctor? You and him – ?"

"No!" Clara said suddenly. "…God, no. It's not like that. He sort of, turned up at my house, one thing led to another, he asked me to explore time and space with him. He's a good friend, the Doctor. A good man."

Sam smiled a little, nodding. "Right."

Clara sat down at the tiny circular table, on a flimsy wire chair. "Well, not much shocks you."

He shrugged. "Not when you've seen what I have."

"And that's what you do, is it?" Clara enquired, crossing her arms and legs and leaning back on the chair. "Drive around the States killing ghosts with your brother?"

"That's it," Sam smiled. "That's the life. But it's more than just ghosts. It's demons, spirits, vampires, werewolves, angels – pretty much anything you've read about in fairy tales or mythology, it's real and we hunt it."

"Sounds dangerous," Clara said.

"My brother watches my back," Sam said loyally, thinking of all the times he would have been dead if not for Dean.

"Your brother – is he always like that?" Clara wondered.

Sam smiled, glancing at his feet. "Yeah, most of the time. He's okay though. I mean, once you get to know him and he gets to know you. It's not really smart in our line of work to trust people unquestioningly when you first meet them."

Clara leaned back, surveying Sam with interest. "I guess that makes sense. How long have you been doing what you do?"

"Since I was a kid. Dean's been doing it just as long – longer, actually."

Clara's eyebrows raised, startled. She couldn't help imagining a pair of little green-eyed boys learning how to kill monsters. Try as she might, she just couldn't imagine the Winchesters as children, and she wondered how a person could obliterate their childhood so entirely with weapons and monsters. "Your parents let you play with guns and knives and things when you were a kid?" She said unbelievingly.

Sam coughed a humourless laugh, but remained silent. The tension that settled over the room told her she'd crossed some kind of line. The realisation hit her suddenly, and watching Sam's face tense up with discomfort and the marks grief leaves in a person's eyes even decades after the event, she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it earlier.

She smiled at him. "I know how you feel, though. My mother died when I was a kid."

Sam's eyes snapped up to meet hers, wary and guarded. _How did she know?_ The unspoken question hung in the air between them, but before Sam could so much as open his mouth, Clara had shrugged. "We learn to spot each other in a crowd, people like us. We wear pain like a coat or a scarf. How old were you?"

He blinked at her, not sure how to respond. When finally he spoke, his voice was tense. "6 months."

Clara nodded, and arranged her face into something she hoped was a sympathetic smile. "I had dad for a while, but somehow after mum died it was just – "

"Different." Sam finished, meeting Clara's gaze. "I can't even picture how different my life would be if she didn't die."

Clara smiled, lifting an arm to stretch over and put a hand over Sam's. "If travelling with the Doctor has taught me one thing," She said with a chuckle, "it's that everything happens for a reason."

* * *

The group of people assembled in the tiny motel room was giving Dean a headache. They'd all filed inside in silence, taking their places in seats around the room. Dean sat down on the three-seater couch by Sam, while Sherlock and John went to stand over by a window and Clara sat down at the little dining table, her hands clasped nervously together. It didn't take long for the Doctor to arrive, fresh off a ferry from Cardiff. He sat down by Clara, crossing his arms and legs and smiling at the room at large.

"If we're going to do this," Sherlock rumbled, his striking eyes sliding over each member of the room, "we play by my rules. Is that understood?"

Dean leaned back, accepting that this was going to be a long day. "Objection, your honour."

Sherlock's eyes flashed at him. "I've been doing this far longer than you have, and it would be in the best interests of the case to allow me to do what I've been doing for many years."

"It might be in the best interests of the case if this was a normal, run of the mill serial killer case." Dean smiled, eyes narrowed.

"What makes you think it isn't?" John wondered, tilting his head to the side in confusion in a way that reminded Dean uncomfortably of a friend of his .

"Dude," Sam said with a smile, "You were thinking that a time-travelling monster was your killer. You _know _this is no regular serial killer."

"Probably a good thing," Dean shrugged, "In my experience, regular people are the most messed up of all the monsters out there."

"Why don't you just take us through it, Sherlock?" Clara said tiredly, head resting on her hand, elbow on the table. The Doctor was remaining silent, uncharacteristically so, from what Dean had seen last night.

Sherlock nodded. "People are being killed, first in Cardiff and now in London, they're being brutally torn apart, with strange marks left on their bodies. It could be an animal attack, with that level of ferocity, were it not possible for the wounds to be made by an animal."

"Huh. Strange marks." Sam said, uncrossing his arms. "You got photos?"

Sherlock took small six by four inch photos from his coat, passing them to Sam with a frosty glare. Dean smirked before turning his attention to the photos. The marks were carved into the skin of the victims, the photos showing them in graphic detail. Some were carved right down to the bone. Dean whistled.

"Familiar?" He murmured to his brother.

Sam frowned. "Not demonic…enokian… not from any mythology I've ever heard of. There might be something on it in the library back at the bunker, but – "

"Can I see them?" The Doctor asked. "I have a knack for languages."

"No need," Dean waved a hand, passing the photos back to Sherlock, who stowed them back into his coat. "I have a friend who can help."

Clara looked sceptical. "You have _friends _in London?"

"Sweetheart," Dean said sarcastically. "I have friends everywhere." He closed his eyes and calmed himself, forming the usual prayer in his mind before sending it in the general direction of up. _Come on, dammit, hear me. I need your help, you lazy feathered jerk._

Castiel appeared suddenly with a flurry of wings, standing still in the corner of the room. The reaction in the room was mixed. The Winchesters were unfazed, and for the most part, so was the Doctor. John and Clara, however, made startled gasps, stepping back a bit in shock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shifted his weight on his feet nervously, his mouth opening and closing briefly.

The angel's voice was low and gruff as usual. "Hello Dean. Sam. And…" His blue gaze searched the room and his head tilted to the side in confusion. "…and others."

"Cas, hey," Dean nodded, sitting back down on the couch. "Just the angel I prayed for."

"Just the – " John said in a high voice, his eyebrows raising.

"Cas is an angel of god. There's perks to having him around." Sam explained, too tired to go any further into it.

"It's true," Castiel said seriously, his eyes sweeping the room. "I am very useful."

"I bet," Clara said giddily. Dean glanced at her as she was eying the angel up and down.

"Cas," Dean said loudly, "You wanna come on down here a minute."

Castiel obeyed, moving smoothly across the room to sit down on the couch by Dean. He looked slightly uncomfortable. "What's going on, Dean? Why aren't you and Sam in North America anymore?"

"Glad you asked," Dean said, leaning back in the chair. "We have a situation here. Not our usual deal, but it's definitely nothing we'd be inclined to ignore." He turned to Sherlock, smiling slightly. "You want to run him though it, Sherlock? A bit more detail, too, instead of the preview you gave us. Tell us everything you know."

Sherlock sniffed delicately, still surveying Castiel through narrowed eyes. "Someone's been committing murders periodically throughout Cardiff and now it's expanded to include London. Bodies have been moved, the blood on the scene is minimal. The victims have been torn apart in the chest and abdomen area, as if by a wild animal. There have also been strange marks carved into the flesh, marks I've – I've never encountered before." Sherlock seemed to have trouble admitting his lack of knowledge in a particular subject.

Cas nodded, then turned to Dean. "_You_ couldn't identify the marks?"

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, pal. Nothing Sammy and I have ever seen either. I don't think it's demonic or enokian if that's what you're thinking."

Cas sighed thoughtfully. "Alright. I'll check it out." With nary a goodbye, he disappeared.

The Doctor, who had been uncharacteristically quiet through these proceedings, smiled gleefully. "Angels, that's a new one."

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. "You're how old and you've never seen an angel?" He couldn't keep a note of smugness out of his tone.

The Doctor rubbed his hands together and grinned. "Of the non-weeping kind? None."

"I don't think Cas cries," Dean mused.

"In any case," The doctor continued. "You Winchesters have your angelic friends to summon, Shezza and John can bring the might of Scotland Yard down, and believe it or not, I do in fact have my own people to call."

Clara raised her eyes and smiled. "You're talking about – "

"I am," The doctor smiled. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Torchwood. Once they get here, of course. They're on the ferry from Cardiff as we speak."

Sherlock sneered. "Torchwood? The welsh alien hunters? Looked into them years ago, mostly dead little team of amateurs. Won't be much help here."

"Dude," Dean shook his head. "Welsh alien hunters. What the hell is with this country?"

"You looked into them?" Clara said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. "How can you have done, they're top secret aren't they? Only a handful of important people know, and I only know because of the Doctor."

Sherlock smiled snidely. "I make a habit of understanding what resources are useful to me in my work. Needless to say, Torchwood has never been one of them."

The Doctor was saved coming up with a response by the materialising of Castiel, back on the lounge, looking as unperturbed as when he had left the room. His tan trench coat now had specks of blood on the sleeve, and he was brushing dirt off his hands. He sighed heavily.

Dean blinked. "Well? Don't leave us hanging, Cas."

Cas pursed his lips. "Each victim has had their souls forcibly removed while they were still alive. It wasn't the murderer who tore the bodies apart, it was the victims."

John made a startled noise. "Wait, the _victims _did that to themselves?!"

Castiel eyed John, as if only just seeing him. "Yes. The pain of having a soul removed while awake is excruciating, it's entirely possible for the victims to claw at themselves in an attempt to remove the pain." Cas turned back to Dean. "There's nothing in common with the victims."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "There's always a pattern. Even killing randomly is a pattern."

John looked up at his companion. "So – what, we go look at the bodies?"

The Doctor nodded once. "What we need here, my friends, is a bit of division of labour. Sam, John and I can stay here and get a little research done on each of the victims. Dean and Sherlock, take Clara to the crime scenes and get investigating." The Doctor eyed Castiel. "And you – sorry, what was it?"

"Castiel,"

"Castiel. Nice name. Kind of – biblical. Go with Dean and Sherlock."

Everyone hesitated, as though unsure of whether to obey the Doctor's orders. Sam stood up though, cracked his knuckles, and shrugged. "Well, come on." He said in resignation. "We all know what we're doing. Let's do it."

* * *

Dean couldn't say he liked the feeling of strange people in the Impala, nor did he like the crowd of stranger people gathered around the crime scene. He did appreciate that Sherlock's relations with the police could get them through the police tape without having to flash a fake ID.

There were three people standing around the body. One was a slight woman, with long dark hair and a leather jacket. Beside her, a tall man in a suit. The last man wore an old trench coat that looked like it had come straight out of world war one. He wondered what kind of man would favour period military over a regular suit. When they turned around, the man in the trench coat flashed them a dazzling smile.

Clara shook hands with each of them, before they turned to Sherlock, Dean and Cas. The man in the trench coat nodded in greeting. When he spoke, Dean was almost relieved to hear an American accent. "Hey there, I'm Captain Jack Harkness, this is Ianto Jones and Gwen Cooper. And who," His shining eyes ran over the bored looking Castiel. "Are you?"

Castiel seemed taken aback, and Dean sighed. "This is Castiel, I'm Dean Winchester and this is Sherlock Holmes. I guess you already know of Clara."

"Pleased to meet you," The woman, Gwen said pleasantly, in what Dean could only assume was a Welsh accent. "Have you seen the crime scenes?"

Clara shrugged. "Some of them. Though we'd sure appreciate a second opinion."

Gwen smiled. "Got you lost as well?"

Sherlock sniffed delicately, and Dean raised a hand defensively. "Hey, woah, noone's _lost _here – "

"Well, you should be," Captain Jack said darkly, turning to glance back at the body. "I've seen a lot, and this isn't anything I've seen before."

"Hey, pal," Dean snapped, fast losing his patience, "You could write a book with all the things you've never seen. For now, we need to see this body." He turned to his companions. "Sherlock, Cas?"

Sherlock gave a little nod and the three of them walked over to the body, leaving Clara and Torchwood to talk. Once away, Dean began to relax. The familiar presence of Castiel had a calming effect on his already fraying patience, and even Sherlock was no longer giving him the irritating feeling of unfamiliarity that strangers often did. He'd never call the tall sullen man a friend, though.

They crouched by the body, pulling the white plastic sheet off enough to look at the abdomen. Like the other bodies, it had been torn apart. Sherlock took a small magnifying glass ('_Could this guy get any more tacky?!) _and examined the wounds. Meanwhile, Castiel placed two fingers on the man's head and closed his eyes, as though meditating.

"Minus a soul?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Minus a soul." Cas sighed, opening his eyes and frowning, as though troubled.

"The wounds," Sherlock observed thoughtfully, "It's inconceivable that these could have been inflicted by the victim himself, but…"

Dean leaned forward. "But?"

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "But it's not entirely impossible. I can have it sent to the morgue, a friend of mine can look for traces of fingernail in the post-mortem."

Cas shrugged. "You can do that, but I can tell you for sure that those wounds were – "

"Okay, cool it," Dean said. "It can't hurt to get a professional opinion. In the meantime, we get to liase with Team X-Files over there." He shot an irritable glance at where Captain Jack and the rest of Torchwood were standing, talking to Clara.

"I am a professional," Cas said quietly, hurt.

"Yeah, you are, pal." Dean chuckled, clapping his angel's shoulder.

Seeing Dean peering over expectantly at her, Clara had strolled over to them, crouching down alongside Sherlock. "I've been talking to Torchwood," She said, shooting an irritated glance at Dean. "They're not sure what it is, but they've found traces of some things you might find interesting."

"Interest me," Dean said with a smirk.

"A few weeks ago, some strange stuff went missing from a museum exhibition on ancient cultures, as well as some extra-terrestrial material from the Torchwood vaults. Jack told me he'd found traces of both the ancient stuff and the alien material in the bloodstream of the victim. He's only seen a few victims, but there were traces of the stuff in all of them." Clara said quickly, the eyes of the group upon her.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What was the material? Could it have been used as the murder weapon?"

Dean sniffed, nodding thoughtfully. "No, It sounds like someone was gathering stuff for a ritual. Sounds witchy to me, we should – " He paused when he was met by a pair of blank faces. "Aaand you don't know what that means. _Dammit, _where's Sammy when you need him?"

"Witch?" Clara said disbelievingly, her eyebrows raising slowly. "As in cackling, warts, black cat, broomstick, the whole shebang?"

Dean was about to respond, but Castiel cut him off, his blue eyes clouded with uncertainty. "I don't think a witch is capable of extracting souls, Dean."

Dean gestured at the torn wounds in the stomach of the man. "It wasn't exactly a clean job, Cas. A reaper or an archangel would do a far better job of taking the soul from the body without all the pain and blood. This looks like amateur hour to me."

"So – what? Rogue reaper?" Castiel tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

"Maybe, but why would they need alien juice and ancient artifacts to do a simple soul job?"

"Or," Sherlock said irritably, lifting up the victim's hand to reveal blood on the underside of his fingernails, "you can stop talking about fairy tales and we can get something worthwhile done."

Clara leaned closer. "That blood – it's the murderers?"

Sherlock smiled, a disconcerting sight. "Oh, yes." He stood up, his eyebrows raised at Dean. "Whoever tore him apart, whether he did it himself, or someone did it to him, I'm going to the morgue to see what I can identify from that blood, but if you'd like to stay here and talk about witches, you're quite welcome to."

* * *

"I gotta admit," Sam smiled, shaking his head, "You're not bad with a computer."

The Doctor shrugged, his fingers a blur over the computer keyboard. "I've had time to practice."

John looked over from where he stood at the printer, stacking massive piles of paper – new reports, birth certificates, diplomas, all the documentation that went along with the lives of the victims. The library had a row of large tables for people to work on, and the three of them had occupied every one of them, spreading the sheets out and using string and tacks to mark out connections and links. They'd had no luck so far, pulling out the string just as quickly as they had put it down.

Progress had been slow, and it was starting to weigh on John's mind. He couldn't help wondering how Dean, Sherlock and the others were going on in the field. He wanted to be with them, following leads and investigating the way he would with Sherlock, but somehow the Doctor had thought he would be more comfortable investigating from the comfort of the library. The thought hurt his pride a little.

"What happened?" John asked, walking back over to the computer, where the Doctor was smiling smugly.

"The Doctor wrote us a program to cross reference data quickly," Sam said, sounding enthusiastic.

"So what – we can find a connection with the victims?" John asked, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Yeah, hopefully," Sam said absent-mindedly, typing on the keyboard. "It'll definitely speed things up a bit."

The Doctor smiled. "That's good news. I'm not what you might call patient."

They worked in silence for a moment, Sam and the Doctor working at the computers while John shuffled papers and read information. He glanced over one of the victim's files, his eyes lingering over the personal information. The woman in the picture, Janice Thornton, was redheaded, with bright green eyes and a wide smile. In her driver's licence photo she was wearing a flowery blue dress, a dress she also wore in the photos taken by forensics when she was found dead. He sighed. She'd had two children and a husband, and now she was dead. After a while, unknowingly, John stopped examining the files and began to study his companions.

Sam Winchester was tall, one of the tallest people he'd met, with long brown hair and a worried face that gave the impression he would burst into tears at any moment. It was a stark contrast to the dark brooding face of his brother. Sam worked comfortably at the computer, but he was also at home with a gun in his hands, as John had noticed the night they'd all first met. He didn't seem bothered that they'd been stuck with the task of research while their companions were chasing leads and actually getting things done, but who really knew, John didn't think he was the best judge of character. He shook his head. He never was any good at deductions – it was always best to leave that to Sherlock.

If Sam was difficult to read, then the Doctor was impossible to decipher, being masked by a façade of childish joy. He was obviously intelligent, and he struck John as a man who was good in a crisis, it certainly seemed as though nothing could crack his calm and jovial demeanour. Something else struck him, though.

"Doctor," He said curiously. "What are you?"

Both Sam and the Doctor looked up from their computers, eyebrows raised. The Doctor was still smiling, but his eyes were now gazing at him with a kind of amused wariness. John reddened, stammering at his own question. "I didn't mean…well…I sort of don't really…sorry, but…"

Sam turned to the Doctor now, his eyes narrowed in innocent confusion. "It's a good question, actually. How is it you have a box that travels in time and space? You say you're over a thousand years old, yet we know nothing else about you."

The Doctor surveyed them both, still unbreakably calm. "I'm not exactly of this world, If that's what you wanted to hear," He said conversationally. John swallowed, trying to soften his reaction.

Sam shrugged. "I've heard stranger things. Go on."

"A long," The Doctor paused, as if he was remembering something painful, "_long _time ago, there was a planet in a part of space you've never heard of, and probably won't for another three hundred years. It was called Gallifrey. I'm from there."

"What happened to it?" John asked, relieved when his voice came out calm and level.

The Doctor shrugged. "War, decay, the usual story. The point is, I can't return home." His tone was casual, but it sounded too forced to be natural. Even John could tell that talking about home hurt the Doctor.

"So you travel around the universe having adventures? Neat. So what about Clara? You pick up stray girls along the way?" Sam said, a little harshly.

"Clara's no 'stray girl.'" The Doctor snapped, the closest John had ever seen him to being angry. "And there's more to my life than that, you have no idea – "

"All I know is that I've been hunting a time-traveller who's meant to be as bloodstained as any monster I've ever heard of, a killer whose name is feared throughout time. Everything you touch is supposed to die." Sam shrugged, looking impassive. "You don't exactly fit the bill, so I'm just trying to understand, Doctor."

"Understand _what?" _The Doctor said savagely, standing up so suddenly that his chair flipped back. He stalked a few steps away, eyes clouded by something that John couldn't name, so his back was to Sam and John.

"Understand who you are," Sam said, standing as well, giving John the sickening feeling that he was witnessing some kind of confrontation. "You don't think you owe us that much? We're trusting you, aren't we?"

The Doctor spun around, his eyes dark. "You don't _want _to know who I am. Every single thing you've said about me is true. I have Clara and all the others because I can't face eternity alone, with just my own thoughts and memories to keep me company! Everything I touch is destroyed, everyone I ever loved was killed. You'd think that would make me stop, keep myself away from people, but it doesn't, It just makes me need people more. Even my own _granddaughter _is gone." He snarled, his hands clenched into fists. "At the end of it all, when everything is just ash and dust, there's still me. _It will always be just me._"

Sam kept his eyes on the Doctors throughout his speech, but John couldn't help looking away. He was finally beginning to understand. He'd pondered the idea of a man who'd lived for a thousand years as a peculiarity, as an oddity, but not as a man who had pain and misery and regret enough for ten men. His childish glee was not the apathy of someone who'd shucked all responsibility to go travelling the stars, but a way of coping with what he'd seen.

John was about to open his mouth and say something, when something caught his eye. A woman, her eyes dark, was surveying them silently behind some bookshelves. When he glanced at her, she averted her gaze, but he saw enough of her eyes to make him gasp sharply.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

John stared at the back of the woman's head. "That woman's eyes – they were _black!"_

Sam's response was instantaneous. He sprung over to his bag, ripping it open to get at a small silver flask. He walked through the bookshelves, John and the still fuming Doctor in tow, until he was standing before the woman, who was still avoiding their gazes. She looked up nervously. "Ah – can I help you?"

Without further ado, Sam splashed the contents of the flask into the woman's face. John cried out in protest, but as the liquid hit her face, it sizzled and burnt her flesh. She screamed out and lurched back, clutching at her face in pain. Clambering to her feet, she darted away through the bookshelves, disappearing among the aisles of books.

Sam plunged into the chase, tearing after her. John ran behind him, the flurry of bookshelves passing by in a blur making him dizzy. He could feel the presence of the Doctor by his side. Without warning, something hit him hard and he barrelled into the Doctor, knocking over shelves and landing in a tangled heap of books and body parts. Sam paused, darting over to make sure they were unhurt, but when he turned around again, they had been surrounded.

Everyone in the library, visitors, staff and security guard were standing in a circle around them, their eyes turned a deep dark black.

John and the Doctor stood, pulling one another up and turned a full circle, glancing at the blank faces that now surrounded them. Sam swallowed nervously, peering at his backpack over by the computers, which no doubt had his weapons in it.

The Doctor looked around, and smiled. "Take us to your leader?" He suggested with a chuckle.

"No need for that," Sam said, paling. "Their leader's already here."

A man had walked into the library, hands in the pockets of his black suit. He was short and stocky, with a balding head and a chin covered in stubble. Approaching them with a grin, his gaze fell straight on Sam before sliding over the Doctor and John.

"Hello moose, friends of moose." He said, and John was unstartled to hear an English accent. "I think it's time we sat down for a little chat."

**Next Chapter: 'Favour for the King': When demons weigh in on the peculiar crimes being committed over London, it's fair to say things are getting serious. But the deeper the team wades into this mystery, the more baffling it seems. Will the King of demons be more of a hindrance than a help?**


	3. Chapter 3 'A Favour for the King'

**_3 | A Favour for the King_**

* * *

The woman who was bent over the dead body was attractive, though not exactly Dean's type. She wore her hair back in a sleek ponytail, with a long white lab coat on over a colourful cardigan and black pants. She seemed so at home in the sterile white and silver walls of the morgue, there was something about her that seemed morbid, though she was a cheerful enough personality.

"Sorry," She said, staring at Sherlock, "you want me to do _what?" _

Sherlock _tsk_ed impatiently. "You heard me, I said I wanted you to search the wound for traces of fingernail or skin from the fingertips. Traces of wood, stone, and any other unusual chemical would be useful as well. Also, Molly, if you could analyse the blood under his fingernails and run it through the system, that would be lovely." He checked his watch. "We're in a hurry, so if you could – " He looked at her pointedly. The woman, Molly, blinked, staring at him in disbelief, before turning around and beginning her work. Dean got the feeling she was used to this.

Both he and Clara had watched the proceedings with raised eyebrows. When Sherlock turned around, he held up his phone, with a photo of an ancient battle-axe, wood with blunt stones held together with flimsy rope and vine. It looked old, but it was hardly beautiful. "The Fenwrick Axe," Sherlock said efficiently, nodding at the photo. "I checked police reports and museum information, this is what was stolen, at the same time as the material from torchwood."

Clara peered at it, her lip curling. "It doesn't look like much."

Sherlock blinked. "It's one of the earliest artifacts of prehistoric man in the world. It was dug up in Fenwrick cave in South Africa." His eyes narrowed, as if only just noticing something. "Where's the angel?"

Dean frowned. "_Cas _has other stuff to do. He kind of works like that. He'll come back if I call him."

Clara snorted. "Must be nice having a pet angel." Dean frowned, irritated.

Sherlock guided them out of the morgue and into the empty corridor outside. Morning had slowly turned into afternoon, and now the light was beginning to turn a radiant gold and start to fade entirely. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "So now what?"

"Well," Clara said thoughtfully. "Let's just decide what we know and what we don't know, then we can call the Doctor and the others and see what they've found about the victims."

Dean shrugged. "As good a plan as any." He turned to Sherlock. "What do we got, Shez?"

Sherlock's face twitched in irritation. "We have a string of bodies strewn across Cardiff and London, all seem to have torn themselves apart while having their… their souls forcibly removed from their bodies. The bodies have traces of stolen materials on them – both the Fenwrick Axe from a museum exhibition on prehistoric cultures and unidentified alien matter from the vaults of Torchwood Institute. We also have those unidentified marks on the skin of the bodies."

Dean whistled. "There's a hell of a lot we don't know."

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully, his face clouding over. "So far we have seemingly unconnected data on the bodies. We don't have a who, why, or a what. We need to know more. We need a motive."

Clara shrugged. "Okay, how about we start researching the marks on the body? We should try and get access to security camera footage too."

Dean grinned. "I can get the nerd squad onto that." He poked a few buttons on his phone, making beeping sounds, before lifting it to his ear. They waited in silence for a few minutes, Dean's smile slowly fading. "Dammit, Sammy, answer your goddamn phone," He fumed, flipping the phone shut. "We're gonna have to make a house call."

Clara and Sherlock both said "I'll call the Doctor," and "I'll try John," in unison. Clara lifted her phone and waited while Sherlock punched in a text message and sent it. After a few minutes, it was clear no one was answering their phones. Together, they decided to head to the car park and meet the others back at the motel.

As Dean pulled the Impala up at the motel, he started feeling panic rise up in him. Sam's stupid rental car was nowhere in sight, and the door to his and Dean's room was locked. Dean pulled his own key out and silently prayed his little brother was inside, sprawled in front of the TV with a beer in hand.

He didn't bother feeling disappointed when the door opened to an empty room. Clara appeared at the door too. "The Doctor hasn't come back here, and I don't think Sherlock's found John."

Dean swore. "The library. They might still be there."

They all got back into the car. It was a tense drive to the library, worry settling in the minds of all three of them. When Dean saw that the only car left in the library car park was Sam's rental, he exhaled sharply. The sun was almost below the horizon now, casting long shadows across the asphalt as they ran across the car park and up to the door of the library. Ignoring the cheerful placard informing readers of library opening times, Dean reared back to kick open the door. It crashed back, its hinges groaning loudly. Clara cried out in shock, but Sherlock and Dean were already running up the stairs to the computer area, taking the stairs two at a time.

He circled the library, checking around every shelf. "Sam! Sammy!"

"John?" He could hear Sherlock shouting somewhere, his voice rising in worry. He couldn't help chuckling to himself. At least he could say he had something in common with the sullen detective – when people they cared about were in danger, both reacted the same way.

Clara appeared in the main aisle of the library, running a hand along a computer. "Dean? Sherlock?"

Both men jogged to her side. "What is it?" Dean asked breathlessly.

Clara pointed. On the computer tables, stacks upon stacks of paper were spread. They'd obviously come some way with the research, if only they had been here to explain their scribbled notes.

Something else had caught Dean's eye, though. A pile of powder, light in colour. It had gathered on a table, spilling out over the chair beneath it. He approached it with panic pooling in his stomach, making his insides liquefy with fury and hate. Dean didn't need to touch it to know what it was, but he let the stuff slide through his fingers anyway, watching it float weightlessly to the carpet. "Sulfur," he spat. He turned back to his companions, his eyes narrowing. "Demons got to them."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically, and Clara's mouth fell open. Dean was too infuriated to bother explaining to them, instead pacing the room, swearing under his breath. "God _damn _it! I _knew _those black eyed sons of bitches would have something to do with this. If they've put a single _scratch _on Sam I swear to _god _I'm gonna – "

Clara reached a hand out to grab his shoulder, holding him still. She shook her head deliriously at him. "How do we fight demons?"

Dean pursed his lips. "We have a knife for that. Or we can exorcise them." A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he felt sick. "Demons – they can possess people, take control of their bodies and walk around in them. Sammy's protected from possession, but your boys? Johnny boy and the Doctor may be in more trouble than you think."

Sherlock frowned, but Clara shook her head, her forehead creasing thoughtfully. "The Doctor's not human, I doubt anything can get to him like that."

"You'd be surprised at what demons can and can't get to," Dean said grimly.

"How do we find them?" Sherlock said curtly, his eyes narrowed.

Dean clicked the power button of one of the computers. "Sammy and I have a phone-GPS-on-at-all-times policy, and I don't see his phone anywhere here, so hopefully it's just a matter of tracking the phone signal. I can do that easy enough."

Clara nodded, heaving a shaky sigh. Dean glanced at her and Sherlock with a grim smile. "Don't worry too much. As long as Sam is with your Doctors they'll be okay. We've been hunting demons since we were kids."

But Sherlock was ignoring these words of comfort, instead rifling through the papers. Dean logged into the internet and proceeded to the website of Sam's service provider. He picked up his phone and dialed the phone number on the site.

"Hey," He said to the operator, "I'm afraid I've lost my phone again, could I get you to track the signal?" He repeated Sam's phone number and waited for the woman on the phone to process the information.

When he snapped the phone closed, he smiled up at Clara. "They're in a warehouse, two towns over."

"That's it?" She said, giddy with relief, "It's as easy as that?"

He smiled grimly. "It's never as easy as that, but it's a start." They started towards the exit. "Hey, Sherlock, you coming or what?"

Sherlock glanced back and nodded.

They ran down the stairs and out into the car park again, Dean reversing out onto the road with a screech. The drive was long and tense, with Sherlock staring stoically out the window, his expression stony and unemotional, while Clara looked down at her hands in silence in the back seat. Dean gritted his teeth. Sam had been taken by demons and other monsters before, but something about this time pissed him off more than usual. He forced himself to take a deep breath. Sam knew how to fight, if anyone could fight off a bunch of demons, protecting John and the Doctor in the process, it was his little brother.

Two towns, and one long awkward silence later, they pulled up at the warehouse. Evening had set in, the only lights being from the street lights and the stars. Dean opened the Impala's trunk with a crash and pulled out and handed to Sherlock a pistol, keeping for himself a rifle, as well as a pair of handcuffs marked with a pentagram, and an engraved knife. He pulled out a long slim blade, an angel blade, and handed it to Clara. "Stay close, be quiet and don't die," He instructed. Glancing back at the warehouse, he smiled grimly. "Okay. Let's do it."

* * *

When John was pulled out of the dark, he was met by the sight of a massive warehouse, dimly lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs. The room was filled with storage containers and other manner of boxes and barrels, but the centre had been cleared for a set of three chairs, all with chains on them. It was these chairs that John and his companions were being bolted into, chained down so that they couldn't move. He felt something pulsing in him that he could have passed for fear, for dread, but he couldn't help the feeling of excitement that mingled with it. It was electric, making his senses more acute and his mind race with the thrill.

Now he just had to work out how to escape.

The Doctor was smiling as he was fastened into his chair, even pausing to murmur to the burly men restraining them, whispering that his shackles could possibly be tightened a little more. Sam was remaining silent, but still looking more annoyed than panicked.

The British man who had captured them was standing watching over, a smile on his face. When they were secure, their captors stepped back to let the short man in the black suit step forward.

"What the _hell, _Crowley." Sam spat.

The man, Crowley, shrugged. "I like having the upper hand in my dealings. Comes from being a crossroads demon, I suppose, but – "

"Shut up," Sam growled, cracking his knuckles in the shackles. John's brow furrowed in confusion. _Crossroads demon?_

"Come on, cupcake, I just want to talk," Crowley exclaimed, raising his palms innocently. "Believe it or not, we all have something in common."

"I doubt that." Sam hissed. "Why the hell would we want to talk to you. I mean, given everything that you've done."

"Everything I've – " Crowley frowned. Then his face lit up with realisation. "Oh! You think I'm the one who's been soul-gathering and making those poor sods tear themselves into shreds!"

John frowned. "You're not?"

Sam scoffed. "Why would he come after us if not to cover his tracks?"

Crowley's eyes turned to Sam, and even when they looked like human eyes, they gleamed red when the light hit them in a way that make John want to shiver. When Crowley spoke, his voice was low, but still playful and mocking. "I needed to talk to this little dream team you've got going, but there are a couple of you who might not be inclined to listen to what I have to say. Fortunately for me, you'd separated yourselves into team 'shoot-first-ask-later' and the brains trust. You three seemed like the most likely to know what was going on, so – "

"So you kidnapped us," The Doctor finished, a small smile still on his face.

Crowley smiled at the three of them. "Precisely." He dragged a bar stool forward to sit down in front of him, his eyes shining. "So, go on then, who's the one dropping humans?"

John, the Doctor and Sam glanced at one another. John frowned. "We don't know."

Crowly blinked. "Hm. Well that's disappointing."

"Wait," Sam said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Why would you care if humans die? This is a pretty elaborate plan if your intention was just to get your fix of current events." He hesitated for a moment, before smiling slightly. "Demons are dying too, aren't they?"

Crowley shifted nervously, the corners of his mouth turning down in annoyance, before meeting the younger Winchester's eyes. "Very perceptive, moose. This is why I kidnapped you instead of squirrel."

"I'll try not to be offended."

John's eyes widened at the sound of the familiar voice, and his stomach back flipped when he saw Dean Winchester, Clara and Sherlock creep out of the shadows of a shipping container to point a variety of weapons at Crowley and his demon minions. He sighed with relief.

Crowley sighed, disappointed. "Dean. Still carrying around that little pig-sticker." He nodded at the engraved knife that Dean was carrying. A couple of the demons standing around the room started towards them, taking out pistols, but a wave of Crowley's hand stopped them in their tracks. Still frowning with annoyance, Crowley gestured to their restrained friends, as though saying _be my guest._

Clara darted over to the Doctor and began working at the chains, while Dean went straight for his brother, tugging the restraints so hard they tumbled off the chair and onto the floor. Sherlock worked at the restraints on John's chair, grunting with effort. They came away easily, far too easily. John couldn't help thinking that the restraints were really just a token gesture – maybe Crowley really did just want to talk. If he'd been genuinely kidnapping them, surely he'd have done a better job. "Alright?" Sherlock asked. John nodded.

Crowley, still sitting on his stool, shrugged. "Well, this is pleasant."

Dean started forward, raising the knife, but Sam pulled him back, shaking his head warningly. He turned back to Crowley. "You were saying something about demons being killed?"

Crowley looked uncomfortable, his legs and arms crossed. "A significant amount of demons have been killed. My demons, demons who were loyal to me."

"Insides torn apart? Soul missing?" John asked, narrowing his eyes.

Crowley looked at him as if he had asked him for a four-course meal. "Demons don't have souls, 'friend-of-moose.' And no, they had just been struck once in the head. Blunt trauma, you'd call it, 'friend-of-squirrel,'" He added, nodding at Sherlock.

"Blunt trauma?" Dean blinked, shaking his head. "How do you kill a demon with blunt trauma? Isn't it exorcism or the knife?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Sure, let me tell you all the ways you can kill me," He snapped sarcastically. "The point is someone's offing my demons at a rate I don't care to admit."

"Cry me a river," Dean snarled. "Why should we care if the entire population of hell goes up in smoke. I still don't get why you needed to kidnap – "

"Because, Dean, did it ever occur to you that your soul-napping case and my problem are related?" Crowley snapped, losing patience quickly.

There was a moment of silence, and Sam glanced around at his companions before fixing his gaze on Crowley. "What do you know that we don't?"

The ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and he almost looked as though he was going to make a joke, but didn't. Instead he gritted his teeth and scowled. "I know that something is threatening hell, and I also know that you shouldn't care. But you may be more interested when I tell you that one of my demons managed to fight off his assailants, and live to report back to me."

When no one spoke, Dean rolled his eyes. "Cut the dramatic pause and just tell us who's offing your demons."

Crowley smiled, though his eyes were still dull and unamused. "He told me who had attacked him, and upon further inspection, his attacker turns out to be one of the bodies rotting in the morgue, soul-less, marked and minced."

"Bodies rotting in the – " Clara said, raising her eyebrows.

John's brow furrowed. "Are you saying that the bodies we've been investigating – ?"

"Are offing my demons," Crowley said with a smile. "Now you're getting it, moose-friend. When I saw our little investigations were starting to overlap, I thought it only right to call a family meeting."

Dean waved a hand, his eyes narrowing. "Alright, suppose we even believe what you're saying, Crowley. What do you want from us?"

Crowley's eyes flashed. "_I want you to find out who's killing my demons, you brain dead cretins!" _

The six of them glanced at one another. John eyed Crowley up and down, his eyes narrowed. He was obviously desperate for their help, why else would he resort to kidnapping them?

Dean twirled the knife in his hand, light glinting off the steel blade. "Let me get this straight. You want our help?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "If you have to put it in such degrading terms, then yes, I want your help."

Sam frowned. "How would you put it then, Crowley?"

Crowley eyed them with annoyance before speaking. "Let me put it this way then, boys and girls. Whatever you're on the trail of, it's something big and scary enough to steal souls, make people rip themselves apart in pain and terror, as well as kill demons without exorcism or your special little knife. God knows what this thing wants, but as long as it's gathering human souls, it may well be the most powerful bloody thing in the world right now. You lot, particularly moose and squirrel, should be already chasing it down because hunting bad things is sort of what you all do, but now I'm giving you a bit of an indication of how serious this is getting." His eyes flashed, and he sneered at them. "Find this bloody thing before it does too much damage."

There was a beat of silence, and Crowley and his minions were gone. John's mouth fell open as his eyes searched the space where the demon had just stood, his mind unable to conceive that what was there seconds ago had vanished into thin air. Unlike Castiel's appearances and disappearances, which had been marked by the sound of feathered wings, Crowley's departure had been silent and sinister.

There was silence for a few moments, before a chirpy little beep echoed through the gloom. Next to John, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone, the LED light illuminating his face. He frowned, glancing up. "Your Demon is right about one thing. The bodies aren't in the morgue anymore."

Clara narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. "How can they not be there anymore? Where are they?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "It just says that they've been stolen. Scotland Yard are looking into it but there's not much to go on." He looked up, his eyes meeting Dean and Sam's. "This is impossible."

The Doctor laughed humourlessly. "More impossible than stolen bodies waking up and going on a demon-killing spree? Nothing is impossible," He said.

"So, what?" John asked, shaking his head. "The bodies that were pronounced officially dead are now wandering around killing Crawler's demons?"

"Crowley."

"What?"

Sam shrugged. "Crowley. His name is Crowley. He's the King of Hell, the boss of all the demons down below. If something's got him scared, it'd be worth our while to investigate. Besides, his story checks out so far, I mean the bodies _have _gone AWOL from the morgue, right? It's possible for them to be going on a demon hunting quest." He glanced at his brother. "Right, Dean?"

Dean frowned, looking sour. "I don't like being tipped off by Crowley. And besides, if dead guys are hunting demons, I'd rather give them a beer and a pat on the back then try and stop them."

Sam stared at his brother. "Yeah, but stealing _human souls, _Dean."

Dean looked exasperated. "Okay, I get it, This is messed up, and we should check it out. So, first step, we find those bodies. Dead or Undead."

The Doctor smiled. "So – we have a heading?"

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him and glanced at their companions. "I believe we do."

* * *

Next morning, Dean was awoken by the sound of birds fluttering through the trees outside, their wings loud in the silence of early morning. He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to accept the fact that he'd need to wake up and go outside to investigate the locations of a large number of soul-less, torn up bodies. It gave him a headache just thinking about it. As much as he didn't want to go along with what Crowley had wanted, he couldn't deny that this kind of a case had 'Winchester' written all over it. Well, 'Winchester and company,' he thought, considering their new companions.

The thing that troubled him the most about this case was the fact that they knew so little after investigating for so long. They'd thought they were dealing with some kind of soul-stealing alien matter-nabbing ancient relic-thieving serial killer (quite a profile, he thought,) but the revelation that the bodies had re-animated and were killing demons had thrown a curveball that even Dean hadn't expected. Sherlock had been right – they had a lot of seemingly unrelated information, but no explanations.

It was eerily quiet now, the birds had completely stopped moving. Dean frowned, eyes still closed. Come to think of it, there weren't any trees outside, the car park of the motel was completely concreted. He sighed. _Those weren't birds._

He opened his eyes with a sigh. "Hey, Cas."

The angel was standing over him, blank faced and wide-eyed, complete with trench coat and blue tie. "Hello Dean."

Dean sat up, rubbing his face, and glanced over at the other single bed. "Where's Sam?"

Castiel blinked over at the empty bed. "I believe he woke up early to go running."

"Running? Yeah, I believe that." Dean sighed, swinging his legs over to sit on the side of the bed. He stretched his arms, groaning. He was no stranger to the stiffness that came from sleeping at cheap motels, but his joints felt iced together today. Generally, he could operate on four hours of sleep, but he privately thought that he could do with some more. "What's going on?"

Cas sat down at the tiny dining table, his hands clasped together. "We have a problem."

"Damn straight, we do," Dean grumbled. "What have I told you about the watching me sleep thing? Just poke me, or prod me, or – "

"Angels are being killed, Dean."

Dean paused, staring. He swallowed, feeling a sense of dread course through his body. "Let me guess. Blunt trauma to the back of the head?"

Cas tilted his head, confused. "How did you – ?"

"Call it a lucky guess," Dean said darkly, standing up and stretching. "As it turns out, Crowley has a similar problem."

"Someone's killing Demons too?"

"Not just someone, specifically the bodies we checked out yesterday," Dean explained, glancing out the window. Clara's motel room door was still closed. He assumed the Doctor was sharing the room, but who really knew what that guy got up to when he was on his own. "One of the demons told Crowley that he'd been attacked by a guy who we'd decided was a soul-less corpse. I tell you, man. Freakin' zombie demon-hunters. What is up with this country?"

Castiel looked concerned. "Whatever you're hunting – it can take souls _and _kill angels and demons?"

Dean nodded. "And all this _without _the use of an angel blade or demon knife, a reaper or an exorcism. If this ain't witchcraft, it's some pretty heavy hoodoo. Crowley's keen on us putting whatever's behind this down."

At that moment, the door crashed open and Sam jogged in, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. He wiped his face, panting, smiling at the sight of the angel. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello Sam."

Dean's lip curled. "Dude, you smell disgusting. Go take a shower. I'll drive by Baker street and pick up Sherlock and John, you grab Clara and the Doctor and bring them back here. We all need to talk. As for you," He jabbed a finger in Castiel's direction. "You don't go anywhere. We're gonna need your help with this."

"Okay," Cas grumbled, standing stock still. "I'll just… stay here."

"Great," Dean smiled, clapping his brother on the shoulder before pushing open the door and walking out.

Outside, he had to shield his face from the glare of the sun. Light was slowly illuminating the car park, the cars casting shadows over the cement. The neon light advertising the motel and it's vacancies was flickering, it's electric blue and red lights barely visible under the light of the sun.

Without warning, Dean felt paper slapped into his hand. His head shot up to meet the gaze of a scruffy man, carrying a stack of pamphlets. Having given Dean one, he shuffled off to poke the papers under the doors of the hotel room. Dean glanced at the pamphlet. It was some religious trash that had the words 'IS YOUR HEART READY FOR YOUR NEW GOD? THE END IS NEAR, AND ONLY HE CAN SAVE YOU!' emblazoned on it in bright red, along with a man's smiling face. He stuffed it into his jacket and walked over to the Impala, keys jangling. Between angels, demons and god, he had quite enough religion in his life.

* * *

John had seen Castiel once before, but the sight of an angel wasn't something he thought he was going to get used to. He coughed nervously as he, Sherlock and John strolled into the Winchester's motel room. The angel was standing, still as a statue, by one of the beds. He looked up as they entered, blue eyes shining.

"Hello Doctor Watson. Mister Holmes. Dean."

"Yeah, hey," Dean said absently, pulling up a few chairs so they all faced the centre of the room. Clara and Sam walked in next, Sam's hair slightly wet as though he'd just showered. Everyone settled down in chairs, murmuring to one another in low voices, before Dean's sharp voice cut through the noise. "Hey, where's the Doctor?"

Clara glanced up. "I think he went back to Cardiff last night to check on the – "

At that moment, a gasping mechanical noise filled the small space of the motel room, a sound that was familiar to all present. Later, Dean had pointed out that the Doctor had probably waited for this exact moment to land his ship, for dramatic effect. In any case, the big blue box began to fade into existence in a corner of the room, lightbulb at the top of the box flashing brightly as it solidified and the noise began to fade. Whether intended or not, the Doctor's timing was impeccable.

"The Tardis." Clara finished, a smile spreading across her face.

The door opened and the Doctor leaned out, giving the box an affectionate pat. He smiled at the room at large. "Shall we take this discussion inside?"

Clara stood up, sighing with relief. "It's finished recharging?"

The Doctor nodded, stepping aside so Clara could stroll in through the doors. He followed, her, gesturing for the others to follow. John leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "Does he really expect us to – "

Sherlock walked over to circle the box once, looking at it through narrowed eyes. Shrugging at John, he walked through the doors. Sam followed, edging slowly inside as though he expected to have little room to move.

Dean and John shared a bewildered look, while Castiel just stared at the box through narrowed eyes. The elder Winchester shook his head. "Like hell I'm gonna pile into that thing." He grunted.

John took a deep breath before opening the doors and walking inside, moving slowly the way Sam did, hoping the box was bigger than it appeared. When he stepped in, he wasn't disappointed.

Inside, rather than the tiny wooden interior he'd been dreading, was a massive control room that looked as though it was right out of a science fiction film. It was bright, lights shining from every possible surface, and was white and silver, with green and blue lights giving it splashes of colour. In the centre of the massive room, a control panel extended to the roof, where there were circular symbols rotating and moving. There were a wide array of lit buttons and levers, and John thought he saw salt and pepper shakers among the dials and knobs.

Clara appeared beside him. "Go on, say it."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, eyes wide. He was having trouble taking in everything he could see, and was resisting the urge to go out and look at the box from the outside. "It's bigger on the inside!"

"There it is!" Clara said in delight, looking up to where the Doctor was grinning at the controls.

The sound of a deep voice swearing by the door told John that Dean had entered too. "Holy crap." He said, his eyes narrowing as he looked around.

Castiel appeared at the door, looking troubled. Dean glanced back. "You comin' in, Cas?"

The angel shook his head. "This… thing. It's not of earth, it's not of my father's creation." He frowned, glancing around with troubled eyes, before walking away from the door and further into the motel room before they heard the faint sound of wings. Dean shrugged and turned back to the others.

They all walked up to the console, looking over all the controls that were laid out in front of them. John shook his head in confusion, and looked up at Sherlock, whose face was still a stoic mask, but even he couldn't hide the bewilderment and wonder that was threatening to overwhelm them all.

"Wait –" Dean said suddenly, dragging them all out of the state of dumbstruck wonder that the TARDIS had in invoked. He was looking up at the symbols on the top of the console, the circular designs that were rotating and flashing with blue and green light. "I've seen those symbols before!"

"So have I," Sherlock rumbled, realisation making his eyes light up. He pulled a photo out of his coat, and held it up, comparing them. It was a photo of one of the bodies, focusing on the markings in the flesh. "They're identical," Sherlock said incredulously.

John turned to the Doctor, who had suddenly turned a shade paler. "Doctor, what are those symbols."

The Doctor strolled over, peering at the photo solemnly. He frowned, gritting his teeth and glancing at them uneasily. "You should have let me see those markings earlier when I asked to." He said worriedly.

"What are they?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's circular Gallifreyan." The Doctor said hesitantly. "The language of the Time Lords."

**Next Chapter: 'Angels and Time Lords': Things get personal for the Doctor, who, until now, was just passing the time until his TARDIS recharged. Combining their knowledge is the only real way to solve this case, and as the team begin to grow more accustomed to one another, the unexpected will strike once more.**


	4. Chapter 4 'Angels and Time Lords'

**_4 | Angels and Time Lords_**

* * *

Dean's brow furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, who looked incredibly serious. "Circular what?"

"The language of my people," The Doctor explained, taking the photos and hunching over them, brow furrowed in concentration. "I can't… This is impossible…"

Dean chuckled. "What have we said about impossible, Doctor? C'mon, what's so impossible about this, I'd call it a pretty solid clue, right Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, meeting Dean's gaze. "This could mean whoever is doing this is one of the Doctor's kind. A Time Lord, was it?"

"No, you don't understand," The Doctor said, sounding sad. "It's _impossible. _I'm the last of my kind. The Time Lords are all dead."

There was silence, and Dean swallowed. He knew a thing or two about living without family, but something about the Doctor's words made his stomach lurch. Living over a thousand years without your family? He didn't think he could imagine anything worse. It was no wonder that the Doctor had taken Clara and god-knows how many other people with him in his travels. Feeling a surge of sympathy for him, Dean frowned. "Okay… Well, is there anyone who knows the language to be able to do this?" He asked, gently.

The Doctor considered this. "There's me. Just me."

Sam looked up at the Doctor, blinking as though he was just understanding something. His big little brother frowned uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

The Doctor cut the tension in half when he smiled. It was a smile Dean had seen countless times before. Hell, it was a smile he'd smiled himself countless times before. It said, _I'm hurting, but I don't want you to know that, so I'll smile and change the subject. _"In any case, this _is_ a clue," The Doctor pointed out.

"I'll say," Dean said, green eyes shining at the Doctor. "If we can get you back to one of the bodies, you could read the symbols and we can work from there,"

"That'd be great, Dean," Sam said dryly. "That is, if the bodies hadn't gone walkabout."

"No need," Dean smiled. "We have photos."

At that moment, there was a beep, and Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, which was illuminated with white light. His lip curled at the sight of an incoming call, and he muttered something that sounded like '_why don't they just text?!' _before lifting the console to his ear. "Hello?"

The others glanced at one another while Sherlock spoke. "Yes. Ah. I understand. Where? Excellent, expect us within the hour." He snapped the phone closed. He turned to the others with shining eyes. "Another body."

Dean whooped. "Awesome," He laughed.

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Awesome?"

"Awesome," Sherlock confirmed, the word sounding off in his accent. "All the other bodies have disappeared, but as long as we have this one, we can keep it under observation and watch what happens. If it rises again, we'll be there to see it."

"Yeah, this is the first luck we've had in, like, ever!" Dean laughed. "Okay, Shezza and I'll go get the body and bring it back, you guys stick around and do research and whatever the hell you all do."

* * *

John watched as Sherlock and Dean walked out of the TARDIS before anyone else could say another word. Sam and John both shook their heads in disbelief as their companions slammed the door shut, talking in low voices. Sam glanced at the Doctor. "You do have a place to keep things in this hunk of metal, right?"

The Doctor stroked the console of the TARDIS affectionately, staring at Sam indignantly. "She's not a hunk of metal," He pointed out. "But yes, I should be able to come up with something. It's a big place, and I think there's a dungeon by the swimming pool."

Clara considered this. "I wondered what that door was."

John shook his head in bewilderment. "How big _is _this place?"

The Doctor smiled. "As big as you can imagine."

Sam walked around the console, running his finger along the smooth metal of the surface, and hastily taking his hand away when he saw the look the Doctor was shooting him. He sighed. "Well, I'm not just going to sit around. I'm going back to the library, see what else I can dig up on this Fenwrick axe thing, maybe call Torchwood for more information on that alien stuff."

"I'll come," Clara shrugged, uncrossing her arms. "I could use the walk."

"That's right," The Doctor joked, "If you don't run her every now and then she'll go crazy and destroy the furniture."

Clara hit him lightly on the arm before leaving, Sam shutting the door after them.

"So, just you and me, Johnny boy." The Doctor said lightly, examining something on a screen on the console with a smile. "Anything you'd like to see?"

John's brow furrowed and he coughed. "See?"

The Doctor flashed him a wide grin. "Yeah, see. Anywhere, anytime. French revolution, maybe? Eruption of Vesuvius is always a good one. Discovery of fire? Painting of the Mona Lisa?"

John was bewildered. "Don't we have work to do? You know, the murders? Bodies walking around killing demons and now angels? That ring a bell?"

"Oh Doctor Watson," The Doctor scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning against the console. "It's a time machine, I can have us back in time for yesterday if you wanted to."

John blinked, taking this in, before a smile spread slowly over his face.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure, but he decided that Sherlock had passed the acquaintance stage and was venturing into the area of friendship. A dangerous area, since most of the people who had made this jump were dead, but something about the detective made him sure that he could look after himself.

"So, Sherlock," Dean said, pulling the Impala into a main street and immediately stopping at a gridlocked traffic light. "You done the whole detective thing for long?"

"Yes. But the skills I use for my work have been developing since childhood." Sherlock explained in his characteristic rumbling voice.

"Skills?"

"In deduction, mainly. But I also have to know a great deal about relevant information. Chemistry, anatomy and so forth."

"Deduction, huh?" Dean said. "You mean that crazy shit you pulled when we all first met. Telling me my life story."

Sherlock smirked, looking away with eyes alight with amusement. "People like you are exceptionally easy to read. You hide your emotion under a mask of bravado and gruffness. Your brother is much the same, but not to your extent."

"Well, if you'd seen the things I've seen, pal." Dean said heavily, shaking his head. The traffic in this city was slowly driving him insane. He was longing for the long stretches of road on American highways, driving interstate for hours while only seeing a few cars over the entire time. This fighting for room on the road with buses and cyclists – this was true hell, and he would know. "What about you? You know all about me, but I know next to nothing about you."

Sherlock tensed a little, and shrugged. "You know everything about me I care to share."

Dean shook his head. "I can do deductions too, y'know. I bet you rub people up the wrong way."

Sherlock sniffed delicately, a passive protest. "John is of a similar opinion."

"What's up with John?" Dean enquired, peering behind him before changing lanes to avoid a mob of cyclists up ahead, cursing them internally. "You two – ?"

Sherlock turned, narrowing his eyes at his companion. It seemed to take a couple of moments for the detective to understand what Dean was asking. "John is my best friend and colleague. I was best man at his wedding," There was a touch of pride at the last part, as if this proved beyond doubt their friendship.

"That's great, man," Dean chuckled.

"I'd ask whether you have a partner, but I already know." Sherlock said conversationally.

"Oh?"

"You don't. Unless you count your brother." Sherlock said. "You're co-dependant to him at a level that's almost unhealthy. You need him, probably more than he needs you. A result of your absent father, no doubt."

Dean felt irritation course through him, and he was seriously thinking that he was premature in calling Sherlock a friend. "My dad was there more than you think."

"Then it was an unhealthy father-son relationship. You were the primary carer of your brother, yes? It results in a personality type that is overprotective, and completely adverse to being alone." Sherlock turned to Dean, eyes shining. Dean couldn't quite put a name to the colour of Sherlock's eyes, sometimes dark and grey and other times bright and blue-green. When the detective spoke again, his voice was light, but the words felt heavy as they set in Dean's mind. "Tell me, Dean, what would happen to you if your brother was no longer here?"

Dean swallowed, avoiding the gaze of the man in the passenger seat. "Hey, Its happened before, pal, and I've been fine."

"What happened?"

Dean hesitated. The only times he'd been separated from Sam since they'd both hit the road together was when one of them had either been killed or sent to hell. And what had happened? The other had moved hell and earth to get their brother back, sometimes sacrificing themselves in the process. Was there really something unhealthy about that? Family stuck together, that's what he'd always been so sure about. "We're here," Dean said, cutting off the conversation entirely.

He pulled up along the curb and got out of the car, ducking under police tape to walk up to where a gazebo had been set up over a body, partially obscured by a plastic sheet of tarpaulin. A man was standing over the body, arms crossed. When Sherlock and Dean approached, he turned and pursed his lips. He was wearing a suit, and had light hair that was greying, though it was light coloured to begin with.

"Lestrade." Sherlock said by way of greeting.

The man, Lestrade, eyed Dean up and down. "Sherlock, who the hell – "

"Dean." Dean grunted, kneeling down to peer at the body, a woman who seemed to be aged in her thirties. "Call me Dean."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, fuming. "I'm fine with John, but you can't just drag strangers onto my cases, Sherlock! This has got to stop, alright?"

"I suggest you rethink your attitude" Dean said seriously, straightening up. Sherlock, noticing his change in tone, narrowed his eyes in confusion. Dean reached into his jacket and produced his fake FBI badge, flipping it open to flash it at the dumbstruck Lestrade. "I'm no stranger," Dean pointed out, his voice low and dangerous. "And I seriously recommend you step back to let me examine this body, because as of now, this case has gone international, pal."

Lestrade raised his hands, glancing at Sherlock, but stepping back. Dean leaned down to examine the body. The wounds in the stomach were the same as the other victims, and the same symbols were carved in the flesh.

Behind him, he heard Lestrade hiss to Sherlock. "Since when do _you _collaborate internationally? The _FBI, _Sherlock, I mean come on_!"_

"Sometimes I need a certain skillset that I can't find here," Sherlock said, unable to keep a note of amusement out of his voice. "Besides, since when is this _your _case? I thought this one was being worked by someone else."

"It was," Lestrade said darkly, "But they're bringing in help to tackle this one. Apparently you've already got that covered, Bringing in help, I mean."

Dean stood up and turned to Lestrade. "Okay, we're going to need to take this body with us,"

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "The hell you are."

Dean raised his eyebrows. It had been a while since he'd enjoyed being in a disguise this much. "Oh, I am. What if I told you that I've been deployed here specially by Interpol, and that I've got my own team of forensic scientists who are leaders in their field? My team would wipe the floor with whatever little science lab project you've got going back at Scotland Yard. Are you so eager to obstruct the course of justice? Because one phone call to my supervisor, and you'll be – "

"Alright, okay," Lestrade said hastily, shaking his head in astonishment. "Look, just… just have the paperwork sent over to me at some stage, alright?"

Dean smiled, his eyes still narrowed. "That's more like it."

* * *

When Dean and Sherlock pulled up at the motel once more, Dean found he had to pull his suit jacket tighter around himself, shivering a little. The sky had clouded over since the morning which, especially in London, wasn't so unusual had the weather not been perfectly fine just hours ago. He looked up at the imposing storm clouds circling the city and frowned.

Sherlock pushed open the door and they carried the body bag in, dropping it heavily on the couch. They'd been careful not to be seen stuffing the bag into the trunk of the Impala – they'd figured Dean's authority as an FBI agent might come into question. Something else was drawing his attention away from the body on the couch, though, or rather, the _lack _of something else.

"Dammit," Dean groaned, green eyes sweeping the room. "Where the hell is the TARDIS? I thought the Doctor was staying here."

Sherlock frowned, taking out his phone. "I'll call John."

Dean collapsed on the couch next to the body bag, leaning his head in his hand and yawning widely. Yes, he could definitely do with a little more sleep. Sherlock's voice cut through his fantasizing about sprawling on the bed and sleeping all day.

"John? Yes, we're back at the motel room. Where are you? Are you with the Doctor?"

There was a moment of silence, and Sherlock blinked and leaned his head back in stunned surprise.

Dean leaned forward. "What?"

Sherlock lifted a hand, silencing Dean. When he spoke, his voice was irritable. "Well, get back here. We have a body on the couch that may start walking around at any time, and no safe place to keep it." He hung up, stowing the phone in his pocket and looking sour.

Dean exhaled in confused laughter. "What, where is he?"

"With the Doctor."

"Where?"

"Ancient Greece."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, but he was saved a response as the TARDIS rematerialized, its god-awful noise echoing around the motel room. Once it had solidified, Dean threw open the door and, together, he and Sherlock hauled the body bag inside.

John and the Doctor were talking to one another around the console, looking up as their companions staggered in.

"Hey, where's Sammy? And Clara?" Dean wondered.

"Library," John explained. "They said something about researching the axe."

Dean shrugged a shoulder and nodded. It sounded like his brother. "You got a room to keep this, Doctor?" He asked, grunting with the effort of dragging the body, which was heavier than it looked.

"Even better," The Doctor said, reaching down to put a small metal pod on the floor of the TARDIS. Prodding it with his foot, it whirred into life, shooting some kind of force field straight up to encapsulate a small space of floor. It was invisible, apart from a rippling motion that gave away its presence.

Dean reached up to put a hand against the force field. It was cool to the touch, and felt as smooth as glass. He whistled, impressed. "Will it hold a person in?"

The Doctor crossed his arms, surveying the force field with a smile. "I'd say so. It's Dalek technology, strictly speaking, but it's not difficult to reprogram the neutralizers to swap the bio key from dalek to human." He looked up at his companions and heaved a sigh at the group of blank faces. "It means it'll work for us, but no one else, hence being able to keep other things contained while we're able to move it around as we like."

"Amazing," John said, peering at the pod in wonder.

"Let's just get this body behind that thing before it goes all Walking Dead on us," Dean said, pulling the bag forward. The Doctor disabled the pod long enough for them to put the body bag within the active area, before unzipping the bag and pulling the body out. It flopped onto the floor and they pushed the bag out of the way. Once they were clear, the Doctor reactivated the pod and stood back.

The field hummed into life, circling the body in rippling, invisible and indestructible glass. Sherlock nodded at it, glancing at the Doctor. "So do you recognise the symbols?"

The Doctor nodded. Dean rolled his eyes. "What do they say?"

"They're… it looks almost like they're reciting an incantation." The Doctor said slowly, tilting his head to the side and squinting to get a better look at the markings carved deep into the flesh of the dead man. "But… It's strange. The words are Gallifreyan, but the incantation itself? It sounds like something out of a horror movie. I don't know it," The Doctor glanced up at them, his eyes darkening. "And I don't like not knowing things."

"What's the incantation?" Dean asked, leaning forward. "It might be my kind of thing."

The Doctor frowned. "It reads: _Bound by blood and bone to your lord. Rise anew as servant of the divine._" The Doctor glanced at Dean. "It's repeated all over the body."

"Servant of the divine?" John said slowly. "What does that mean?"

Dean pursed his lips. "I don't know," He growled. "But I know someone who knows a thing or two about divine servants." He closed his eyes and cast his mind skyward. _Cas, get down here. We've got a lead on the angel hunting zombie, and you're gonna want to see it._

Before he even opened his eyes, he knew Castiel had appeared, but the sound of flapping wings was coming from outside the TARDIS. Sure enough, there was a knock at the door. "Dean?"

Dean moved over to the door to open it, flinging it wide and gesturing for the solemn looking angel to enter. "Hey, pal," Dean said warmly, shutting the door behind Cas. "Why not just teleport straight inside?"

Cas shot him a look that was pure discomfort. "This … thing is not of god's creation. It's not a part of earth, either. I can't fly in."

The Doctor shrugged. "Makes sense. The TARDIS is a dimension of its own, compressed to exist within a police telephone box."

"Look, forget about that," Dean said, waving a hand carelessly, and gesturing at the body. "We got one caught, Cas."

Castiel moved over to peer at the body encapsulated in the force field and, if it was possible, frowned even more deeply. "It's missing its soul as well."

"Good to know, but that's not the reason I called." Dean said, crossing his arms and standing by Sherlock. "We got those symbols translated. Tell him, Doctor."

The Doctor recited the translation, and as he spoke, Cas' eyes widened. The corners of Dean's mouth twitched. "I take it that it's familiar, Cas?"

"I haven't heard it for a long time. I thought it was just a story…."

Sherlock frowned, gaze fixing on the angel's face. "What does it mean?"

"It's a spell used in a ritual. I'm not familiar with the procedure exactly, but I do know what its intended result is."

There was a few beats of silence, and Dean rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Cas, don't leave us hanging."

Castiel looked uncomfortable, and shifted from foot to foot. "From what I understand, it's a spell used to create angels."

His words were met with a tense silence, everyone considering this slowly, glancing at one another in confusion. Dean in particular looked bewildered. "Woah, woah. _Make _angels? Is that even possible?"

"Apparently so. I'd thought the ritual was a myth, but…" Cas shrugged. "The words have to be carved into a human in the caster's native tongue."

"That explains the Gallifreyan," The Doctor said, his voice sounding as though he was trying to force excitement down. His eyes were shining brightly. "So whoever's doing this is definitely a Time Lord."

"Wait, how is it possible to make angels? Aren't there a set number of servants of the big guy upstairs?" Dean asked, his brow furrowing and his mouth turning down into a scowl. He was feeling uncertainty rise up in him, and it was a feeling he didn't care to facilitate.

Castiel looked disgusted. "You can't make angels _of the Lord, _Dean. That _would _be impossible."

"So – what?" Dean wondered, shaking his head. "It makes angels without an allegiance? Generic, stock angels?"

Cas shook his head. "All angels must have an allegiance. They're servants; servitude is their purpose for existence. It is said if angels are created, they swear loyalty and servitude to their creator. At least," he shrugged, "that is the way it is for angels like those that exist now."

"Right," The Doctor said slowly, narrowing his eyes. "So, a time lord is creating angels that are loyal to him. "

Castiel shrugged. "It would appear so." The angel turned to Dean, looking uncomfortable. "I don't like this, Dean."

Dean nodded, frowning down at the body. "Neither do I, Cas."

John shifted his weight, heaving a sigh. "So now what? We wait and see what happens to the body we caught?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning back against the TARDIS console and pressing his fingertips together in front of his face, a thoughtful pose that reminded Dean uncomfortably of praying. "The way I see it," the detective rumbled slowly, "all we can do now is wait."

* * *

Clara looked over the empty tables of the library. At this time, when afternoon was giving way to the golden red skies of evening, there was hardly anyone here. It was almost closing time, and the elderly librarians had given them both a peculiar look when they'd strolled into the library. While Sam sat down at a computer and logged in, muttering something about information he'd saved the other day, Clara walked through the bookshelves.

She'd always loved books. Her mother had read to her, she remembered that much about her mother, and something about that memory had been a comfort. Whenever she read, she could imagine her mother reading to her. It was one of the ways she felt she could be close to a woman who died far too early.

Clara turned back to where Sam was hunched over the computer, long hair falling over his face. She walked over to sit on a chair next to him and peer at the computer. "Will this take long?"

Sam shook his head, still staring at the screen. "It shouldn't. Most of the research we dug up before Crowley got to us was saved. I just need to find it on the Library server."

Clara nodded. She'd never been any good at computers, so she didn't bother offering any help. It wasn't her fault though, the computers were never cooperative. Why did they have to be so difficult? The computer seemed to be playing nice with Sam, he was combing through huge amounts of data, clicking and dragging files to the printer queue with ease. Something about it reminded her of the Doctor – he was good with technology too. She smiled, thinking of the many jokes the Doctor had made about her inability to use computers.

"What?" Sam asked, noticing her expression.

Clara wiped her face clean. "Oh, nothing. I just… nothing."

Sam stopped to peer at her, eyes narrowed playfully and a smile playing at the sides of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright. I was just thinking that… well, you reminded me of the Doctor. Being good at technology isn't really something I can relate to."

Sam grinned. "You should see Dean try and work a computer. He can use Google, but not much else."

Clara laughed. "You know, funnily enough, I could have picked that. You don't have to be Sherlock to be able to read your brother."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Sam chuckled. "I'm sure he likes imagining he's dark and mysterious."

"He's about as dark and mysterious as a bunny." Clara smiled. "He's all rough and angry all the time, but he cares a lot. I can tell that much easily."

Sam glanced up, his head tilting in confusion. "How?"

"He cares about you," Clara shrugged. "You should have seen him when we found out you'd all been taken by Crowley. I swear, he was going to blow a fuse or something. When someone cares about other people that much, especially their family, the whole 'devil-may-care bad boy' image sort of falls apart."

Sam shook his head, laughing. "You're almost as good as Sherlock, you know?"

"What can I say," Clara smiled. "I'm good."

There was a moment of silence, where they sat awkwardly, staring at each other. Sam frowned, his eyebrows pulling together as though he was desperately trying to say something but couldn't get the words out. Clara blinked, about to open her mouth and break the silence that was making her insides squirm uncomfortably, when the computer made a beep. Sam turned away, hand on the mouse and clicking around furiously.

"All done," He said, his voice heightening a few octaves.

"Great," Clara said, standing up a little too fast and turning around. She strolled over to the printer, picking up the stacks of printed information before turning around and following Sam out of the library.

As they walked down the stairs and out into the car park, he turned and smiled at her. Pausing for a moment, she stopped and smiled back.

"Y'know, I'm glad you guys are all here." Sam said slowly. "Dean would never say it, but it does get lonely doing these things on our own."

"People need other people," Clara said, and stopped when she realised how lame her words sounded. "I mean, well… I think it's why the Doctor has to travel with someone else. He needs other people or he loses himself. Noone can survive on their own, you can't completely cut yourself off from people, even if you think you have to, to protect them or something. Life doesn't work like that." She paused again, biting her lip before saying, slowly, "But y'know, Sam, I bet there are heaps of people who would help you. _And _Dean. Most of the time, you just have to ask."

Sam considered this, frowning at his feet. He looked just about to say something when the flash of movement caught her eye, and something hard collided with the back of Sam's head, making him keel over and land heavily to the ground with a strained "_Oof!"_

"_Sam!"_

She bent over, rolling him onto his back. He was out cold, blood leaking through his hair and dripping onto the concrete. Panic was beginning to surge inside her like a wave as she turned and faced the figure that stood behind them.

It was a woman, redheaded and seeming to be in her mid-thirties. She held a wooden hammer, spattered with Sam's blood.

"Who are you?!" Clara managed to gasp.

The woman turned her eyes to meet Clara's, and she was startled to see that the eyes that met hers seemed to glow with a kind of blue light. When she spoke, it was with a low voice. "Companions of the Doctor. Your time has come."

When Clara saw the flash of the hammer being raised, she closed her eyes and crouched over Sam's lifeless body. Perhaps it wasn't the smartest move in the interests of self-preservation, but she didn't have much of a choice. When she felt something pound into the back of her head, she felt herself slip into unconsciousness with a whimper of pain. The darkness enveloped her entirely, and she was lost to the world.

* * *

It was almost midnight when John was shaken awake by Sherlock. He wondered whether the detective had slept at all. He doubted it, when Sherlock was working he rarely slept. It took a moment after he opened his eyes for the events of the past day to return to him. The bright white lights of the TARDIS were glaring down at him, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. He'd fallen asleep sitting on the grated metal floor of the TARDIS control room, leaning against the handrail around the edge of the circular platform on which sat the console.

Across the room, Dean and Castiel were standing side by side near the force-field. Dean was also leaning against the handrail, and his eyes were closed. John couldn't blame him, the eldest Winchester had been looking progressively more tired over the course of the day. The angel by his side kept glancing at him uncomfortably, as if unsure whether to awaken him or let him sleep. Castiel had made sure everyone understood that he considered the TARDIS an abomination, and had proceeded to stay by Dean's side and sulk. This had amused John. He'd never pictured angels as the kind of creatures to mope or whinge.

The Doctor was drumming his fingers on the console, staring at one of the screens popping out of the plane of buttons and levers, though without really seeing it. His eyes were clouded, as though he was lost in thought.

"Wha? What's happening?" John babbled, pulling himself to his feet. "Has it moved?"

"No," Sherlock said. "You asked me to wake you after a few hours."

"Oh," John said, remembering. "I did." When he'd began to nod off, he'd asked Sherlock to wake him up, not wanting to miss anything. This had seemed like a good idea until he'd realised just how much he needed sleep. This case had been weighing on him. Somehow, he knew this case was weighing on all of them. "Have you slept?"

Sherlock shook his head, frowning with an irritated expression. "I never sleep while I'm on a case."

John sighed in resignation. "Just thought you might make an exception." He wandered over to the force field, where the body was laying exactly where they'd left it. He crossed his eyes and frowned, peering down to the woman, who probably had children, a house, a family. He fell into the unpleasant mental exercise of inventing a life for the woman now sprawled on the floor, ugly marks cut into her body.

He was so focused on this, he almost didn't see the light.

In the corner of his eye, John noticed that light was leaking through the outlines of the door to the TARDIS, as though some blinding source of light was pressed up against the TARDIS itself. He turned, peering at it, before creeping closer. He didn't think the others had seen it, Sherlock was now talking to the Doctor, and Dean and Castiel were still standing motionless by the body. This was a case he'd have to handle on his own.

He walked over to the door, and eyed the light shining around the edges. Placing a hand on the doorknob, he hesitated. But what harm could light do, really? Curiosity got the better of him, and he twisted the handle. There was movement behind him as Dean and Cas noticed what he'd done.

"Stop!"

"John, no!"

But the moment the door was opened, the light spilled forth, enveloping the control room and spilling luminous blue-white light into every orifice and crack of the console. It was like a ball, a beacon of light shooting through the air.

To general surprise, it shot through the force field and disappeared down the throat of the woman. John's eyes widened as she gasped, sitting up. Her eyes shone blue for a moment before becoming normal, human eyes.

There was a flurry of instantaneous movement. Dean pulled a pistol from his jacket, and so too did John, while the Doctor pointed some kind of small thick metal rod, with a glowing green light at the end. They pointed their weapons squarely at the shuddering woman on the floor. Sherlock stayed back, eying the proceedings with interest, while Cas was pressed up against the handrail, staring at the woman, his mouth moving slowly as though trying to speak but unable to.

The woman looked up at them, eyes shining, and smiled.

"Who are you?" The Doctor asked loudly.

"She's an angel," Castiel said hoarsely, knuckles white as his hands clenched the handrail. "She's an unholy angel."

Dean blinked. "Wait, that light that went into her – "

"It was grace. The grace of an angel," Cas hissed, gritting his teeth with eyes flung wide with fear.

"Woah," Dean whistled. "So someone's pulling the human out of people and replacing it with angel."

"Instant servant, right?" John asked, gun still raised.

They fell silent as the woman pulled herself to her feet, slowly. Keeping their weapons trained on her, they watched as she turned, surveying them all through eyes lit with a kind of malicious glee. She begun to take a step forward, but her foot collided with the force field, stopping it short. Her smile faltered a little, her eyes narrowing in confusion, before she accepted her fate and sat back down, cross legged, on the floor.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked loudly.

"My name is Asparinyol," She said, in a voice that was like a hiss.

Everyone glanced at the Doctor, who shrugged and whispered "it sounds like it could be a Time Lord's name. He's giving his angels time lord names."

At the mention of the words 'time lord,' the woman, Aspariyol, fixed her gaze on the Doctor, drinking in his sight as though looking at a god. Then, as though noticing something he had not seen before, her eyes narrowed. "You… you are not Him. You are similar, but… He is far greater than you."

The Doctor leaned forward. "Who is he?"

"He is my Lord and Father, my Master." She said reverently. "He created me and my brothers."

The Doctor scowled. "_Who is he," _he demanded.

Asparinyol smiled and chuckled. She tore her gaze from the Doctor to look around the room. As her eyes grazed John's, he felt cold chills run up his back. He reminded himself that all trace of humanity had been sucked out of this woman. Perhaps that was why he felt like he was looking at a wild animal rather than a person. When she spoke again, she was staring pointedly at Castiel. "I will not betray my God. Ask _him_, he is of my own kind. Ask him if he would ever betray _his_ God."

Castiel started forward, eyes flashing. "You are _not _of my kind, abomination!" He growled dangerously, and Dean had to grab hold of one of the angel's arms to restrain him. "We are timeless, we watched the earth form and grow in the light of His power. You are not only a fledgeling, but not even a true angel!"

Asparinyol chuckled. "I was warned of the arrogance of your kind when I took this vessel. Angels of your precious God are not the only true angels. And besides, I am risen to witness the forming of the world – the _new _world, where the world is not ruled by angels and demons of Heaven and Hell but the one true God. He will come into his throne and his people will love and fear him." Her eyes flashed, and her smile widened. "You say you are timeless, Castiel, angel of the Lord? You are wrong. You are not timeless, and your time is up."

"So – what? You're bumping off all the angels and demons." Dean growled, holding his weapon with one hand and restraining the seething Castiel with the other hand. "What's it all for?"

"_Idiot_," Asparinyol hissed suddenly, making John jump a little. "My God is the one true ruler of earth! He will not contend with pretenders!"

"What about the axe?" Sherlock cut in suddenly. "And the alien matter from Torchwood? What were they for?"

Asparinyol leaned back and smiled. "I will not betray my God." She said. "But you will be able to read the meaning of my Master's intentions, when it is written in the Gospel of The Master." She looked at Castiel again, grinning. "Yes, lesser angel. He has prophets to write his will, just as your false god does."

Something that Asparinyol had said made the Doctor go still. He stared at the captive angel, his eyes very wide, and paler than John had ever seen him. "D…Did you say the Gospel of the _Master?"_

Asparinyol blinked, not speaking. Dean twitched suddenly, reaching into his jacket. "Wait, something about this rings a bell," he muttered, fishing around in the inner pockets of his jacket, and pulling out a piece of paper. His eyes widened, and he held up the pamphlet in his hands. "Some guy was handing these out a couple days ago."

On the pamphlet were the large red words 'IS YOUR HEART READY FOR YOUR NEW GOD? THE END IS NEAR, AND ONLY HE CAN SAVE YOU!' Below this, there was a picture of a man, smiling.

Dean passed the pamphlet to the Doctor, whose mouth was now hanging open as though frozen in shock. The eldest Winchester coughed nervously. "You think that has anything to do with this?"

The Doctor, slowly, nodded. "I know this man. His name is The Master."

**Next Chapter: 'The New God': The Doctor faces the return of his old enemy, while Clara and Sam are facing problems of their own, kidnapped by The Master's Angels. As their foe slowly reveals his endgame, the team fully understand that what they've stumbled upon is no ordinary case for any of them.**


	5. Chapter 5 'The New God'

**_5 | The New God_**

* * *

Something sharp was pressing into Clara's back, and the pain pulled her heavily from the serene darkness of sleep into consciousness, When she opened her eyes, they took a few moments to shake the blurriness that made everything around her seem like one big dark blodge. From what she could make out, she seemed to be in some kind of basement. It was cool, dark and damp enough to be a basement. She sat up, too quickly, and was overcome by dizziness.

"Whoa..." She huffed, pressing a hand to her spinning head and gritting her teeth in pain. Feeling her way to the back of her head, she felt where the woman had hit her. The wound was still open, but was no longer bleeding. She shuddered to think of how much blood she could have lost. But, she allowed, she didn't think she'd been hit as hard as Sam had.

_Sam!_

The realisation that Sam wasn't in whatever room she was in sent cold chills down her spine. She remembered the fear from her childhood, the fear of getting lost and being alone, and the memory made her hands tremble. _Stay calm, _she willed herself. _Stay calm._

"Clara?" She heard a voice hiss. She tensed all over before realising the voice was familiar.

"Sam?!"

"Where are you?" He asked softly. She looked around the room, trying to find where the voice was coming from, but she was met with only silence.

"It's a good question," She said shakily, pushing herself up on her knees, so she could look around the room with a bit more height. She didn't dare stand up though – her head was still spinning. "I think it's a basement." Her eyes locked onto something on the wall, that ascended up to the ceiling. Stairs. "And I think I've found a way out."

She crawled over to the stairs and climbed them, grunting with the effort, trying in vain to ignore the pounding in the back of her head. Her hands found the door in the ceiling, that apparently swung upwards, but when she pushed on it she felt her stomach squirm in terror. Not only was the door locked, it seemed like something was sitting on top of it – even if she could snap the rusted lock, there was no way she'd be able to shift it. "Scratch that," She said, her voice rising. "No way out."

She turned back to the room and set about finding Sam, or rather, the source of his voice. She could have sworn she had heard it towards the back of the room, and as she felt around there, in complete darkness, she managed to find a spot in the wall where a hole had been scratched. Not a large hole, but big enough to fit her hand through. She leant down to it. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam wheezed, his voice drifting through the hole. "Are you okay?"

She couldn't help smiling. "Better than you sound. Sit tight, I'll work out what's going on."

Before she could set about investigating, though, the trap door at the top of the stairs swung open, illuminating the stairs with golden light. She flattened herself against the wall. "Sam," She hissed, feeling fear seize her insides. "Sam, something's here."

"Can you hide?" He asked in a low voice.

Before she could answer, a figure appeared, pulling itself through the door and coming down the stairs with loud clomping sounds. She flattened herself against the wall, feeling her breathing quicken, but the figure turned straight towards her, picking her out of the darkness as though the whole room were illuminated instead of covered in shadows. Facing away from the light, it was impossible to make out facial features, but Clara could have sworn that she saw eyes that shone bright blue, just for a split second, so brief she could have imagined it.

Whoever it was leaned down, crouching so their faces were level. "You come with me now." It was a female voice, low and dangerous.

Clara's eyes were wide. "No,"

She reached out, took hold of the front of Clara's clothes, and pulled her to her feet. "Yes." She dragged Clara to the stairs, hauling them both up with astonishing ease. This was no normal woman, she was some kind of monster, the kind that the Winchesters knew so much about.

Above the stairs, through the trap door, Clara was shocked to find a pristine Victorian style room, decorative furniture and paintings framed with gold hanging on the colourful walls. There was a vase of flowers on a small table, and a plush red rug lying on the floor. She inhaled sharply. This was no normal kidnapper's lair.

She was dragged down a similarly decorated hallway, echoing through which could be heard grainy music, like something was being played though a gramophone, bouncing music straight out of the 1940's. Through the hallway, she was shoved into a room where the music was strongest.

In it was a high-backed armchair, with a small table by its side. Lining the walls were antique bookshelves, stuffed with old books. Sitting in the armchair, was a man.

He was unremarkable enough, short and a little skinny with thin blonde hair, possibly in his thirties. He wore a grey hoodie and blue jeans, remarkably at odds with the environment. His legs and arms were crossed, but when Clara entered, he smiled and lifted his hands in a kind of elaborate welcome.

"Hello," He said, amusement seeping into his tone. "Clara, isn't it?"

Clara blinked, shifting from foot to foot and glancing around the room.

"I wouldn't try and run. You won't get far."

She gritted her teeth. She had been scared before, but something was different about being scared when the Doctor was with her – it was a kind of safe scared, the kind you felt on a rollercoaster when you knew nothing bad would happen, even though it was scary all the same. On her own, in a strange place with this strange man, the fear was real. "Who are you." She demanded, trying to keep her voice steady and failing.

At that moment, there was movement behind her as Sam was shoved in the room by the same woman who had collected Clara. He looked around, bewildered, before his eyes settled on the man in the armchair. "What the _hell."_

The man shrugged. "Hell is the least of your problems, Sam Winchester."

Sam paused. "How do you – "

"Oh come _on_," the man sighed wearily. "I haven't been in this world long, and even _I _know you must get sick of asking that. _'How do you know my name? Why me, what's so special about me, I'm just a Winchester, my brother and I have only ripped the world apart and glued it back together a few times, what's so great about that?'" _The man rolled his eyes. "Predictable. Boring. But that's not why you're here, believe it or not."

Clara and Sam shared confused glances, but the man kept talking. "I don't care who you are and what you've done; I care about who you're with."

Sam frowned. "Who we're with?"

The man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, smirking slightly. "You've both been working with a very, _very _old friend of mine. It's not surprising, but I'll never understand why he loves his pets so much."

"_You're _friends with the Doctor?" Clara said slowly, unbelievingly.

The man tilted his head from left to right, as though weighing something up. "Friends, enemies, allies, nemesis," he smiled and shrugged. "It's been a long time, and we've had our rough patches."

"Is it you," Sam asked, his voice a snarl. "who's killing those people and taking their souls?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "I haven't killed anyone. Or taken any souls. But I _am, _in fact, the one you're looking for." He grinned. "Riddle me that, Winchester."

Sam shook his head, eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I was so looking forward to that question," The man said, springing up from his chair. Even standing, he didn't come close to Sam's height, but then, Clara considered, hardly anyone would. "I expect I'll be going by many names soon enough – God, The Lord, Father of all – but I'm a stickler for tradition. Call me the Master, it's the name the Doctor knows me by."

"The Master," Clara said, scoffing. "That's not at all pretentious, is it?"

The Master's face twitched, but his smile widened. "You travel around with a man who calls himself The Doctor, even though he does more killing and destroying than he does healing, and I'm the pretentious one?"

"You don't know the Doctor at all." Clara frowned, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't I?" The Master growled, his face darkening. "Ask your precious Doctor what happened to all his other companions. Ask him what happened to the Time Lords. See how much of a saint he is when he's telling you that juicy little tale."

Clara was about to retort angrily when Sam's voice cut her off. "Why did you bring us here? What's the plan?"

The Master smiled. "Reveal my plans to the Doctor's little companions? No thankyou. I need servants for my plan, though. That much I'll tell you for free. Who better to serve me than those who once served the Doctor? Neat, right?"

He leaned under his armchair to pull out a long wooden tool, and both Sam and Clara gaped with recognition, sharing a brief confused glance. The Fenwrick axe was much smaller than Clara would have thought, but the picture Sherlock had shown them had shown its angular blade and weathered handle perfectly. Something was off about it though – it pulsed with a kind of green light that seemed to come from within the axe itself.

Without warning, Clara felt hands grab her, holding her in place. Turning her head, she saw a host of people with glowing blue eyes holding both her and Sam so tightly she could barely move. Struggling, a cry escaped her mouth as the Master walked forward, swinging the axe above his head.

"Don't worry," He smiled cheerfully. "This won't hurt a bit. Apart from the pain. That'll be excruciating."

* * *

It was hard for Dean to tune out the sound of Asparinyol's shouting from where she sat inside the force field, so he could hear the ringing sound through the phone.

"Come on, Sammy, pick up." He growled under his breath. He pulled the phone away from his ear. "Dammit, how hard is it to just answer when I call?!" Shaking his head, he pocketed the phone.

He turned back to where Sherlock, the Doctor and Castiel were standing and watching over Asparinyol, who was shouting in some unfamiliar language, head tipped back and eyes closed, rocking slowly back and forward. Dean walked over to stand by Sherlock, eyes narrowed. "What is that?" He said, shaking his head. "Cas? Enokian?"

Castiel frowned. "No."

Dean turned back to the Doctor. "Gallifreyan?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Definitely not."

Dean rolled his eyes and glanced at Sherlock. "Anything you know of, Sherlock?"

"It's no language I know of." Sherlock rumbled thoughtfully. "And there aren't many I don't know of."

"Okay," Dean shrugged. "So something new."

They stood in silence, listening to the unholy angel they had imprisoned wail and scream in the language that none of them could identify. It was a grating sound, one that grinded on the insides of Dean's mind. The Doctor glanced at Dean. "Sam didn't answer?"

"Nope. He's probably still nerding it up at the library. I'll check up on him when we're done here."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door of the TARDIS. It echoed around the massive control room. Dean looked over at the door. "He's here."

"I'm still not sure about this," John said uneasily as Dean crossed the room to the TARDIS door. "How can we trust him?"

Dean grimaced. "That's what you've gotta remember. You can't trust him." He flung open the door and frowned at the man standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, smirk on his face.

"Plotting in a box now, are we? Dodgy motel rooms not working for you boys anymore?" Crowley snickered, pushing past Dean to stroll inside. His eyes widened and then narrowed when faced with the sprawling expanse that was the TARDIS control room, housed within the police box exterior, but said nothing except widening his smirk.

He turned and looked at Asparinyol, who had ceased shouting and was now murmuring in the strange made-up language, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of her mouth. She rocked back and forth, sitting on folded knees. Crowley raised his eyebrows. "This the angel?"

"She's no angel." Castiel growled, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Crowley surveyed Cas lazily. "Ah, Castiel. I didn't see you there. It's been too long."

Cas didn't reply, crossing his arms and frowning sulkily. Crowley crossed the room to kneel next to the force field, studying Asparinyol through narrowed eyes. Dean stepped over to stand next to him, Sherlock shooting him a disapproving glance. It had been Dean's idea to call Crowley over, but this plan had been met by resounding disagreement from everyone. The memory of Crowley's kidnapping their friends was still fresh, Dean knew, but there was a reason Crowley could help them – and besides, the Master was Crowley's problem too.

"So?" John said testily. "What do you think?"

Crowley glanced up. "What I think, friend-of-moose, is that you have an angel on your hands - A 100% authentic angel, the real deal."

"Not a false angel? A reproduction?" Castiel enquired, his eyes narrowed.

Crowley shrugged, straightening up and glancing around the room. "Nope. She's real. Could have been made by the big man himself."

Sherlock frowned, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We need to know where to find this 'Master,' and this woman is our only lead." He turned to Dean. "Can we get information out of her?"

Crowley's face contorted in mock confusion. "I assumed that's why you called me here."

* * *

John couldn't help thinking that the sound of the angel screaming in pain was far worse than when she was shouting in the language none of them could identify. The shrieks and gurgles echoed up from below the platform on which the TARDIS console was positioned. There were cables and machinery down there, and Crowley had deemed it a perfect place to torture an angel. The Doctor had almost gagged when Dean had poured some kind of liquid in a circle around a manacled chair, lighting it on fire with a match. Both the eldest Winchester and the King of Hell had assured them that Asparinyol could not escape the ring of fire that now encased her.

Crowley could, though, and when he had started pushing long, thin metal rods into the skull of what had been a dead woman only hours ago, John had had to leave.

He walked out into the hotel room, shutting the TARDIS door firmly behind him. He ran his hands down his face, telling himself that he was only imagining still being able to hear Asparinyol's screams. He heaved a sigh, collapsing on the couch, recoiling when he saw that the empty body bag was still there.

Sherlock walked out of the TARDIS, the briefly opened door freeing the sounds of moans and shrieks, before it was closed and silence fell once more. He glanced at John through expressionless eyes. "Hopefully Crowley can get somewhere and we can get this case over with."

John swallowed, raising his eyebrows at his friend. "I don't know whether this is the way to do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking very much like a confused puppy. John rolled his eyes. "That's a _person _in there! Crowley's digging metal spikes into a _person's _head!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock rumbled, in a voice that suggested he was anything but sorry, "but this is the fastest way to find out what we need to know. Why do you care, she's a bad woman." He rolled his eyes, frown deepening. "She's not even a woman, John. She's a...an…."

"An angel?" John finished skeptically. He shook his head burying his face in his hands and wondered just how his life had become so insane. In hindsight, it had probably started when he'd walked into the Bart's hospital morgue some time ago, and Sherlock Holmes had looked up from his microscope to sweep him with his piercing gaze, a kind of deducing X-ray vision that had seemed so bizarre to John back then. Something had changed then, his existence had skewed off along a whole other path, a path that took him to crime scenes, forensic labs and secret government facilities. Wasn't this just too insane, even for them? If Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that there was a logical explanation for most things, an intention that could be discovered through careful investigation and deduction. He believed everything happened for a reason, and until very recently, he'd also believed there was no such thing as angels.

He hesitated when he realised that the insanity of it all wasn't what was bothering him. He glanced up at Sherlock, his lips pursing. "I just… I don't know when we became the kind of people who _torture _for information."

Sherlock's eyelids twitched, narrowing for a split second. "You can't make things fit how you want them to, John. The world doesn't work like that." His voice was serious, tone flat, and something about it made John's stomach twinge uncomfortably. "This woman, or angel if it makes you feel better, is working for someone who has killed dozens of people, and will kill dozens more if we don't find out how to stop him."

John coughed, looking away. "Right. Well," he muttered, suddenly unwilling to continue this conversation. He was tired, the scant sleep he'd managed to get had been interrupted often by bad dreams lately, leaving his eyes dry and sore, and his mind numbed and desperate for sleep. Even in his sleep-deprived state, though, there was something innately wrong about torture.

He remembered what Sherlock had said at John's wedding about he, John, keeping Sherlock right. _I can solve the crime, but it takes John Watson to save a life. _Had Sherlock forgotten this so easily in the thrill of the chase, the excitement that came with a case so unique, so intriguing, the ever bored Sherlock Holmes couldn't stay away. John glanced at Sherlock uneasily. Perhaps his best friend became someone entirely different when the game was on, and he'd always thought he'd admired the intelligence and drive of this other person, this crime-solving machine. Here, though, faced with everything that was happening, John couldn't help feeling a disappointed, and a little sickened. _Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

At that moment, though, the round face of Crowley appeared at the door of the TARDIS. "You can finish your lover's spat later, boys," He said sarcastically, "get back in here, I've made progress."

John and Sherlock followed him back inside, descending to the lower levels of the command room, where Asparinyol was shackled to a metal chair within the ring of fire. John felt his breath catch in his throat. She had a number of metal rods sticking out of all sides of her head, forming a kind of ring around the skull. Trails of blood leaked out of the wound that each rod had carved. Perhaps most strangely, she sat up straight in the chair, eyes clear and focused, staring in front of her without really seeing anything. Castiel and Dean had come down to see as well, as did the Doctor, who looked even less happy about this than John did, scowling and shaking his head at the sight of the blood.

Crowley stepped easily through the flames, approaching the angel in the chair. "It works the same way it does for every angel," He grunted, reaching up and shifting one of the rods a little.

The angel stiffened, eyes widening, before she spoke in a flat tone. "_Jira. Noko. Iad. Asparinyol." _She continued to repeat these four words until the rod was moved back in place, and she fell silent once more.

"It's speaking Enokian!" Castiel exclaimed, his eyebrows raising.

"What's that?" John asked, narrowing his eyes with confusion. "What did you do to her?"

Crowley glanced up. "If you play around with the grapefruit of the winged buggers, you can get them to spurt out their basic information. Their factory settings, if you will." He gestured lazily at the figure in the chair. "I believe our fine feathered friend just told us her name."

"What else can you get her to say?" Sherlock demanded, and both John and the Doctor shot disgusted looks at the detective.

Crowley, however, was unfazed. He shrugged. "A lot. I've done it before. If you know where to poke, you can get them to tell you their deepest secrets. This is the best way to find out how angels tick."

"So, keep digging." Dean nodded.

Crowley shrugged, and twinged another rod. Asparinyol stiffened. "_Ana. Inio. Okel. Ira. Telin. Foru. Inu. Karu. Espiel." _

Castiel tilted his head with confusion. "She says… she is in servitude to the master of time and space." He fixed Crowley an interested look. "Can you find out how these angels are being made?"

Crowley frowned. "I can try."

He twinged another couple of rods, making the angel mutter things at which Castiel would shake his head. On about the sixth try, she said something that made Castiel raise his eyebrows and look at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean blinked. "What? What did she say?"

Castiel swallowed. "She said that she and her brothers were 'born of the blade.' What does that mean?"

"The blade? Like, a weapon?" John wondered.

"You can make angels with a weapon?" Dean said unbelievingly. "Is that what she said? I thought it was the skin-carving ritual that made the angel."

"It makes no sense." Castiel observed, shaking his head.

"I'll say," Dean grunted. "But at least we know someone who knows a thing or two about weapons."

* * *

Dean felt good driving in the Impala again, even if the others were all crammed in with him. The Doctor was settled in the passenger seat, while John and Sherlock occupied the back. As soon as they'd left the TARDIS, Dean had ordered Castiel to go and find Balthazar, the angel who had once stolen holy weapons from heaven. He figured if anyone knew anything about what was going on, it would be Balthazar. Unfortunately, Balthazar wouldn't come when Dean prayed to him, the angel was very much less cooperative than Castiel. Cas, however, had pointed out that it would be simple enough for him to find Balthazar, and without much more explanation, had disappeared. Crowley had left fairly soon after their use for him had disappeared, with a few snide comments and smug smiles.

With nothing to do but wait, Dean had decided the time had come to find his little brother and tell him everything that had happened. Neither Sam or Clara had been answering their phones, though, and Dean had begun to get that oh-so-familiar feeling of concern in the pit of his stomach again.

When he pulled up at the library, they all piled out. He circled back to the trunk of the Impala and pulled out a colourful array of weapons, stowing them in his clothes.

"Really?" John said, eyebrows raised.

Dean shrugged. "You can't be too careful."

He pulled out the collection of angel blades that Sam and he and collected over their time dealing with the servants of God, and passed them around. When he held out a weapon to the Doctor, the Time Lord shook his head, his lip curling. "I don't do weapons." He said simply.

Dean shrugged, but felt a twinge of annoyance. If the Doctor was unarmed, they'd have to watch his back as well. Together they walked up to the library, walking up the stairs and pushing open the glass double doors. Library-goers were quietly reading newspapers or clicking away at computers, the gentle murmuring whoosh of ceiling fans the only real sound. Dean stalked forward, searching for any signs of his big little brother. Gritting his teeth, he watched the Doctor look around as well, probably feeling the same sense of rising panic as Dean was. _I hate this library, _Dean thought irritably.

He sighed and pulled out his phone, dialling the phone company. He swore it was always the same woman he spoke to, and he wondered whether she remembered that he was the same person who always lost his phone and needed to get it tracked. If she remembered him, she didn't comment on it and quickly gave him the location of Sam's phone. He hung up with a sinking feeling.

"Where are they?" The Doctor asked, his tone serious.

"Here." Dean said slowly. "Sammy must have left his phone here."

John looked alarmed. "We've _lost _them?!"

"Relax, Johnny boy," Dean said, though he himself didn't feel like relaxing in the least. "Sam knows what he's doing. If something was wrong, we'd know it."

"Now what?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Maybe I can get some of the TARDIS' tracking software to find them," The Doctor said uncertainly, his brow furrowing. "Though the hardware could use some fixes, it hasn't been used for centuries. Maybe if I can – "

They never found out what the Doctor could do, as the lights began to flicker on and off, one blowing out entirely with a flash and a shower of sparks. The people in the library glanced up, mild alarm lighting their faces. The staff peered up at the lights, shaking their heads with disbelief. Dean gritted his teeth. "That's never a good sign."

Suddenly, John's eyes widened, and he stared at the door to the library. Standing, still and straight, in the doorway was Sam and Clara. Both were staring at them with blank faces, eyes surveying them expressionlessly.

Dean exhaled with relief. "Sammy, thank god." He moved forward, smiling, before he saw the blue gleam of his brother's eyes. He paused, reaching out an arm to prevent the Doctor from going over to Clara. "Wait, something's wrong."

Sam tilted his head slightly, staring at Dean in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of the way Castiel would stare – as though he was looking into you, and through you, as though you were transparent and he could read every word that ran through your head. Dean felt dread course through him. "Oh god, no."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I think they're angels." Dean said. The Doctor looked over at Clara and gritted his teeth, his eyes wide with pain. Dean felt something like dread shoot through his veins, hot and burning like fire, with a sensation that made his insides twist. He and his brother had been through a lot, but this was something altogether different.

Together, both Clara and Sam walked forward a few steps. Dean threw out his other arm instinctively, as though shielding the others, until he realised they didn't need his help. The one he should have been defending was standing before him, blank and empty. He felt a twinge in his heart as the thought that he'd failed Sammy again crashed through his mind. It was a burning reminder of all the times Sam had needed him and he wasn't there. All he'd ever wanted to do was protect his little brother. He stared down the thing that wore his brother's face, fury pulsing through him. "Who the _hell _are you, you son of a bitch."

Sam (_No, not Sam, not anymore!) _tilted his head again, confused. "I'm your brother." His voice was soft, gentle, formal.

Dean shook his head. "The hell you are, you feathered piece of crap. Get the hell out of my brother."

"I am your brother," Sam said again, more forcefully. He paused. "But my name is not Sam. I am Semarion."

Dean could actually hear the Doctor grinding his teeth beside him. He turned to Clara. "And you?"

Clara blinked. "I am Anorean."

Dean's mouth twitched. "So, what, you get the jump on our friends and stuff your angel grace inside them when they're not looking, huh? You guys go around possessing people to make a little angel army for this 'Master' douche?"

Sam smiled, looking at Dean with something almost like affection. It made Dean uncomfortable. "No, Dean," Sam sighed gently. "It's not a matter of possession. The process – the human souls aren't destroyed so the grace of an angel can take its place in the body. The human soul is converted, _turned into _grace." He put a hand softly on his own chest. "I am still Sam. But I have become Semarion."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Dean laughed humourlessly. "This is the biggest load of crap I've ever – "

"It's true," Clara said, in the same gentle but firm tone as Sam, a voice that made Dean think he was being preached to. "We are still the same. We are just enlightened now." She looked at the Doctor, smiling warmly. "I still remember, Doctor. I still remember all that we've done. The Rings of Akhaten, the Cybermen, the Crimson Horror, all of it. I am still Clara."

The Doctor shook his head, fixing his gaze on his companion with pained eyes. "You aren't Clara anymore," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Sam stepped forward, Clara following him. Slowly, they pulled out long ceramic knives, engraved with markings. A few of the people still in the library saw the weapons and ran, ducking and scampering out the doors. The staff, their eyes widening, scurried into another room, the sound of a lock echoing through the silent library. Dean raised his hands defensively. "Hey, woah, woah. What's with the hardware?!"

Sam stared at his brother unblinkingly. "You will come with us now."

"Hell no." Dean growled. He pulled out his angel blade, nodding at the others to do the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that John had also pulled out his pistol. _Good luck killing angels with that thing, _he thought bitterly.

Clara stared unsmilingly at the weapons. "You won't use those."

"Wanna make a bet?" Dean rumbled.

"You won't," Sam said flatly. "I am your brother, and Clara is your friend. You would not kill us. This is why our father sent us here, instead of another from our garrison."

"Your father?" The Doctor said sharply. "The Master?"

Both Sam and Clara smiled. "Our Father is the Master of earth, the rightful God of the humans."

"What does he want," The Doctor asked, eyes searching Clara's for some sign that the girl he knew was still there. "Why is he doing this."

Clara tilted her head. "His plans are good and his intentions are just. This world is his, and he will be more kind a God than the current God, a God who has abandoned his children."

Sam shook his head, as though shooing an irritable fly. "Enough. Come with us now. You are important to the Master, but he will not have you interfering in his plans."

They both started forward, and Dean ducked forward to avoid his brothers swing, knife swishing through the air. Sam turned back and raised a hand. Something coursed through Dean's body, and he was thrown back against a wall. Any people left in the library left quickly, arms covering their heads as though the roof was going to cave in. Dean, dazed, tried to wrench his body free of the invisible grip that was holding him in place.

Clara restrained John and Sherlock in a similar way, keeping them with their fronts against another wall. Dean grunted and pulled again, huffing with the effort. He swore he saw something cross his brother's eyes, something that shone with a kind of macabre delight.

When Clara turned to flick a hand at where the Doctor was standing, she paused, seeing her old friend holding a small thick metal rod outstretched at her. Dean gritted his teeth, confused. Was it a weapon?

The Doctor aimed whatever it was at Clara. "Don't think about it, Clara," He said seriously. "You know what this thing can do,"

A smile played at one corner of Clara's face. "It's useless against me," She said gently. "You don't own any weapons, Doctor. Even if you did, you would never hurt me."

The Doctor blinked at her, eyes shining with affection. "You're right. I wouldn't." He pointed the device upwards and pressed some kind of button, lighting up a bright green light on the tip of the rod and making a kind of high pitched screech.

Dean felt whatever angelic force had been holding him in place evaporate, leaving him to slump heavily against the wall, panting. He didn't waste time though, reaching into his pocket to pull out a knife and carve a slit into his wrist, using his other hand to catch the beads of blood now seeping down his palm to smear the crimson liquid onto the wall.

Clara and Sam had turned to stare at the Doctor, their eyes no longer gentle and serene but hardened, annoyed. Their patience had run out, and now they fixed the Doctor with a glare that had a kind of malevolence Dean found disturbing to see on the face of his little brother.

The Doctor, device still raised, lifted his other hand defensively. "You don't want to do this." He told them. "This isn't you, Clara, you have to fight this."

"There's nothing to fight, Doctor," Clara hissed. "This is me. I had hoped you would understand, empathize with our revelation, maybe seek enlightenment yourself, but now I see." She shook her head, taking him in with a disappointed frown.

"Clara," The Doctor said, in a rumbling voice that was more violent that Dean had ever heard the mild-mannered man speak, "Make sure he understands that he isn't my enemy, but the moment he decided to use you against me is a moment he'll live to regret."

When Clara and Sam raised their weapons again, Dean decided this had gone far enough. "Hey, douchebags," he growled. They turned to look at him, and he slapped his hand down on the symbol he'd drawn onto the wall with his own blood. The moment his skin hit the plaster, blinding white and blue light radiated from the angels and they cried out in shock. Within seconds they were gone, vanished in a dazzling display of light.

There was a few moments of tense silence while they took in what had just happened, standing back up and brushing dirt and blood off their clothes. Sherlock stared uneasily at the bloody symbol on the wall. "What is that?"

Dean pursed his lips and pressed the wound on his wrist tightly. "Angelic return to sender. Sends angels back to heaven. God knows where those two went since heaven isn't their home, but at least they're gone."

He stared down at the blood trails on his arm and heaved a sigh. He hated thinking Sam was up in the air, lost and at the mercy of this 'Master' guy, but while he was in angel mode he was a threat, and his first problem would be protecting the people he still had. Though, if this encounter was anything to go by, some of them wouldn't need much protecting. Dean looked up at the metal device in the Doctor's hand. "Doc, that's one hell of a thing. What is it?"

The Doctor slid it back into his coat. "It's a sonic screwdriver. It has a program that cancels out unearthly forces, that's how it could stop whatever Clara and Sam could do." His expression was unreadable.

"Hey," Dean said gently. "That wasn't Clara and Sam, okay man? That was… I dunno, some kind of really trippy possession, but there's no way that was them."

"You're ignoring the data we have," Sherlock cut in, his voice flat and emotionless. "They as good as told us that they weren't possessed like the way you said angels normally work. It sounds as though their humanity was converted into angelic grace."

Dean glanced sharply at Sherlock. "I don't care what they said. That was _not _Clara and Sam. Sammy would never lay a finger on me, there's no way in hell he'd be pushed around by some angel servitude crap."

"Then what?" John asked.

Dean's heart sunk a little. He knew Sherlock was right. From everything they knew, it made sense that the people who were being killed were not being killed at all, but being converted from human to angel, complete with memories from their old human lives with added angelic mojo and insane levels of loyalty to their god. In this case, that god was the Master. "I swear to god." He said clearly, fury dripping from his voice and his eyes darkening. "The _real _god. I swear I'm gonna ice this son of a bitch for touching my little brother."

The Doctor glanced up sharply. "You'll do no such thing."

Dean felt heat course through his body as frustrated aggression and fear for Sam made his head pulse with anger. He turned, stalking over to stand in the Doctor's personal space, scowling menacingly. "Yeah? You gonna stop me?"

The Doctor's brow furrowed and he frowned. "The Master is the only other living Time Lord. I won't let you kill him."

"Look, man," Dean growled, his voice rising into a shout. "This 'everyone deserves to live' schtick is real cute and might work wherever you're from, but in the real world, _the bad guy deserves to get put down_."

"I'm telling you, Dean, I _won't _let you!" The Doctor shouted back, his eyes darkening.

"_Why?!" _Dean roared. "_Why the hell would you want to save this guy!?"_

"_Because I'm tired of being alone!" _

Dean blinked and fell silent at the Doctor's words. Hadn't he himself forgiven Sam for so many things, like drinking demon's blood to gain supernatural powers? He had been so angry, so betrayed at his brothers actions but he knew, deep down, there was nothing Sammy could do that Dean wouldn't forgive him for. He was family, and you always made an effort for family. Besides, better to forgive than to be alone. As he stared at the Doctor's face, into the lines that were carved by weariness and loss, and into eyes that were dulled by the weight of the universe he'd travelled for countless millennia, Dean could see a glimmer of hope. Hope for a family that the Time Lord had thought he'd lost. Even if that family was killing people, wasn't it still worth fighting for?

Dean opened his mouth, not even sure what he was about to say, but the sound of wings cut him off before he could even get a word out. He glanced sideways, where Castiel was standing staring at him. He was about to say hello to his angel friend, but the wide-eyed look of panic that Cas was sporting made him pause, frowning.

"Cas? What's wrong."

"Dean. The Master's Angels," Castiel said with terror. "They're laying siege to heaven."

**Next Chapter: 'World Order': The Master is dismantling the old ways – tearing into the gates of heaven and wreaking havoc both there and on earth. With Sam and Clara playing for the other team, the stakes are higher than ever. How can the team stop the coming cataclysm while still saving their friends?**


End file.
